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ROBERT filTCHANAN, 

Author of ‘ ‘The Master of the Mine,” Etc., Etc. 

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Ew York 


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onN V lgVELL (O/APANY 

16 Vesey Stre:et\ 





Is better than any soap ; handier, finer, more effec- 
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As it saves the worst of the work, so it saves the 
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scrubbing, house-cleaning, washing dishes, 


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Beware of imitations, prize packages and ped- 

JAMES PYLE, New York 


LYDIA E. PINKHAM’S 


VEGETABLE COMPOUNDS 



IS A POSITIVE CURE 


For all those Complaints and 

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female poptilation. ^ 


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Lydia E. Pinlcliam’s Vegetable Compound Is prepared at Lynn, Mass. Price, $1.00 
Six bottles for $5.00. Sent by mail in the torn!* of Pills, also in the form of Lozenges, on recelp 
of price, $1.00 per box, for either. Setcl'foi, pamphlet. All letters of inquiry promptly an 
9wered, Address as above. 


P 

IS 

! 


GOD AND THE MAN. 

BY ROBERT BUCHANAN. 


PROEM. 

“ All men, each one, beneath the sun, 

I hate, shall hate, till life is clone; 

But of all men one, till my race is run, 

And all the rest for the sake of one! 

^ “ If God stood there, revealed full bare, 

■ I would laugh to scorn Ilis love or- care. 

** Nay, in despair, I would pray a prayer 

Which lie needs must grant — if a God ITc were! 

^ “ And the prayer would be, ‘ Yield up to me 

This man alone of all men that see! 

Give him to me, and to misery! 

Give me this man, if a God thou be!’ ” . 
****** 

Shape on the headland in the night, 

Gaunt, ghastly, kneeling on his knee. 

He prays; his baffled prayers take flight, 

Like screaming sea-birds, thro’ the light 
That streams across the sleeping sea. 

From the black depths of man’s despair 
Bose ever so accurst a prayer? 

His hands clinch and his e}'eballs roll, 

I • Hate’s famine sickens in his soul. 

Meantime the windless waves intone 
Their peaceful answer to his moan. 

The soft clouds one another chase. 

The moon-rays flash upon his face, 
f The mighty deep is calm; but see! 

f This man is as a storm-swept tree. 

\ And, silvern-sandal ’d, still as death. 

The white moon in her own purd breath 
Walks yonder. Doth he see her pass 
Over the glimmering water-glass ? 

Sees he the stars that softly swing 
Like lamps around her wandering, 

I Sown thick as early snowdrops now 

In the dark furrows of the Flow? 

Hears he the sad, still rhythmic throb 


GOD AND THE MAN, 


Of the dark ocean where he stands — 

The great strong voice still’d to a sob, 

Near darkened capes and glimmering sands? 
Nay, nay; but, even as a wight 
Who on a mirror fixeth sight, 

And screams at his own face of dread 
AVithin the dimness pictured. 

He useth God’s great sleeping sea 
To imago hate and agony. 

He kneels, he prays — nay, call it not 
A prayer, that riseth in his throat; 

’Tis but a curse this mortal cries. 

Like one who curses God and dies. 

*X' •3f‘ ^ 

“ Yield up to me, to hate and me. 

One man alone of all men that see! 

Give him to me, and to misery! 

Give me this man, if a God thou be! 

“ But the cruel heavens all open lie. 

No God doth reign o’er the sea or sky. 

The earth is dark and the clouds go by, 

But there is no God to hear me cry! 

“ There is no God, none, to abolish one 
Of the foul things thought and dreamed and done! 
AVherefore I hate, till my race is run, 

All living men beneath the sun!” 

To-night he rose when all was still. 

Left like a thief his darkened door, 

And down the dale, and o’er the hill. 

He flew, till here upon the shore 
Shivering he came; and here he trod 
Hour after hour the glooms of God, 

Nursing his hate in fierce unrest, 

Like an elfin babe upon the breast! 

And all his hunger and his thirst 
AVas vengeance on the man he cursed! 

“ O Lord my God, if a God there be. 

Give up the man I hate to me! 

On his living heart let my vengeance feed. 

And I shall know Thou art God indeed!” 

Again rings out that bitter cry 
Between the dark seas and the sky — 

Then all is hush’d, while quivering, 

AVith teeth and claws prepared to spring. 

He crouches beast- like . . . Hark, O hark! 

AVhat solemn murmur fills the dark? 

AVhat shadows come and go up there. 

Through the azure voids of the starry air? 

# 

The night is still; the waters sleep; the skies 
Gaze down with bright innumerable eyes; 

A voice comes out of heaven and o’er the sea: 

“ I am; AXD I WILL GIVE TUIS MAN TO TUEEl” 


GOD AND THE 3IAN, 


3 


chapter I. 

A WINTER NIGHT’S PROLOGUE. 

“Granddad, granddad! look up— it is Marjorie. Have vou 
forgotten your niece, Marjorie Wells? And this is little Edgar, 
Marjorie’s son! Speak to him, Edgar, speak to granddad. Alack, 
this is one of his dark days, and he knoweth no one.” 

In the arm-chair of carven oak, stained black as ebony by the 
smokes of many years, and placed in the great hall where the 
Yule log is burning, the old man sits as he has sat every day 
since last winter; speechless, to all seeming sightless; faintly 
smiling and nodding’from time to time when well shaken into 
consciousness by some kindly hand, and then relapsing into 
stupor. He is paralyzed from the waist downward. His deeply 
wrinkled face is ashen gray and perfectly bloodless, set in its 
frame of snow-white hair; hair that has once been curly and 
light, and still falls in thin white ringlets on the stooping shoul- 
ders; his hands are shriveled to thinnest bone and parchment; 
his eyes, sunken deep beneath the brows, give forth little or no 
glimmer of the fire of life. 

Ninety years old. The ruin, or wreck, of what has once been 
a gigantic man. 

The frame is still gigantic, and shows the mighty mold in 
which the man was made; the great head, with its broad, over- 
hanging brows and square, powerful jaw, is like the head of an 
aged lion of Africa, toothless and gray with time. 

Kick the great log, and as the sparks fly up the chimney thick 
as bees from out a hive, his eyes open a little, and he seems 
faintly conscious of the flame. Flash the lamp into his sunken 
eyes, and as he mutters curiously to himself, and fumbles with 
thin hands upon his knees, a faint flash of consciousness comes 
from the smoldering brand of brain within. 

He is not always so inert as now. This, as the grave matron 
who is bending over him says, is one of his dark days. Some- 
times he will look around and talk feebly to his children’s chil- 
dren, and seem to listen as some one reads out of the great 
family Bible which stands ever near bis elbow; and the gray 
old face will smile gently, and the thin, worn hand lie lightly 
as a leaf on some flaxen head. But to-night, though it is 
Christmas Eve, and all the kinsfolk of the house are gathered 
together, he knows no one, and sees and hears nothing. He 
breathes, and that is all. 

All round the upland hall the snow is lying, but over it, since 
last night, have fallen, in black tree-like shadows, the trails of 
the thaw. The woods are bare. The great horse-chestnut on 
the hilltop has long since shed its sevenfold fans, intermingled 
with jagged brown buds bursting open to show the glossy nuts 
within. Bare, even, is the ash, which keeps a goodly portion of 
its leaves so long, and stands scarcely half stripped, darkening 
in the chill autumnal wind. All the landscape round looks dark 
and ominous; the shadow of winter is seen visibly upon the 
shivering w^orld. 


4 


GOD AND THE MAN. 


“Put a drop to his lips— perhaps he’d know us then.” 

The speaker, a tall, handsome Mudow of fifty, with grim, 
weatherbeaten face, holds by the hand a dark-eyed boy of ten, 
swarthy as a quadroon. Friends and kinsmen of the family — of 
both sexes and all ages— gather round. It i? a festival, and all 
are more or less gorgeously clad, bright-ribboned caps and gor- 
geoussilk gowns being predominant among the women, and blue 
swallow- tailed coats and knee-breeches among the men. Next 
to tlie'centenarian, the chief center of interest is the handsome 
widow and her little boy. She has been long absent from Eng- 
land, having married a West Indian planter, and long ago set- 
tled down in Barbadoes. A widow with one child, she has at 
last returned to the village where she was bom, and though she 
has been some months at home, the novelty of her presence has 
by no means worn away. 

“ Put a drop to his lips,” she repeats, “ and speak up to grand- 
father.” 

“Grandfather!” cries the boy, taking one of the cold bony 
hands. 

No stir— no sign. 

“It’s no use, Marjorie,” observes the good matron with a 
dolorous shake of the head. “-When he goes like this, he is 
stone deaf and blind. Some of these days, doctor says, he’ll 
never wake up at all, but go out like a spark, as quiet as you see 
him now.” 

“ And no wonder,” returns the widow. “ The Book says three 
score and ten, and he is over a score beyond.” 

“Fourscore and ten, and seven weeks,” pipes a thin voice 
from the background. “ Ah, it be a powerful age.” 

He who speaks is himself an old man, very thin and very 
feeble, with a senile smile and purblind eyes; yet, gaziqg upon 
the figure in the arm-chair he assumes an appearance of ghastly 
youtli, and feel quite fresh and boy like. 

“ Four score and ten, and seven weeks,” he repeats, “and the 
master was a man growed before I was born. He puts me in 
mind of the great oak of Dingleby Waste, for it stood many a 
hundred year before it fell, and now, though it be fallen vvitli 
its roots out o’ the ground, its boughs do put out every summer 
a little patch of green, just to show there be a spark of life i’ 
the old stump yet.” 

Tlie members of the family group gaze open-mouthed at the 
speaker, and then, with mouths still wider open, at tbe tenant 
of the arm-chair, one and all with a curious air of belonging to 
another and less mortal species, and having nothing in common 
with a thing so fallen and so perishable. And still the old man 
does not stir. Lying thus, he does indeed seem like some 
mighty tree of the forest, gnarled and weather-beaten and bare, 
uprooted and cast down, with scarcely a sign to show that it has 
once gloried in her splendor of innumerable leaves, and stood 
erect in its strength against the crimson shafts of sunset and 
of dawn. 

All the long winter evening there has been mirth-making 
around him. The hall is hung with holly, green leaf and red 


GOD AND THE MAN. 


5 


berry; and from the quaint old lamp that swings from the cen^ 
ter beam, is pending a bunch of whitest- berried mistletoe. Fid- 
dles and flutes and pipes have been playing, and nimble feet 
have beaten merry time on the polished oaken floor. And 
throughout it all grandfather has kept his silent seat on the 
ingle, and hardly seemed to hear or see. 

It is a grand old hall, fit to be a portion of some grand 
manorial abode; and such indeed it was once upon a time, be- 
fore the old manor-house fell into decay, and became the home 
of the Christiansons. Facing the great ingle is a large double 
entrance door, studded with great nails and brazen bars like a 
prison gate; and whenever this door — or rather one- half of it — 
is swung open, you see the snow w’hirling outside, and can hear 
a roar like the far-off murmur of the sea. The hall is long and 
broad, and at one end there is a wide staircase of carven oak, 
leading to a gallery, which in turn communicates with the up- 
per rooms of the house. In- the gallery sit the musicians, led 
by the little old cripple, Myles Middlemass, the parish clerk. 
Great black beams, like polished ebony, support the ceiling. The 
fireplace is broad and high, with fixed oaken forms on either 
side, and projecting thence, two sphinx-like forms of well-bur- 
nished brass; while facing the fire and the great Yule log, sits, 
in his arm-chair of polished oak, the old man, Christian Chris- 
tianson, of the Fen. 

The music begins anew, and the folk begin a country dance. 
Farm maidens and farm laborers lounge in from the "kitchen, 
gathering like sheep at one end of the hall, close to the kitchen, 
door. Then Farmer Thorpe, who is master of the house, which 
came to him with Mary Christianson, the old man’s daughter, 
leads off the dance with Mistress Marjorie, his grim kinswoman 
from Barbadoes. The others follow, young and old, and the 
oldest as merrily as the youngest. Loud cries and laughter rise 
ringing to the rafters; there is struggling in corners, girlish 
laughter, patter of light and heavy feet; and the louder the 
mirth seems within, the louder roars the winter wind without. 
But old Christian sits moveless, with his blank eyes, half closed, 
fixed on the fire. Like a fallen tree, did we say ? Rather like 
some gray pillar of granite rising grimly out of the sea; with 
the innumerable laughter of ocean about it, and flight of 
wliite wings around it, and brightness above it; dead, dead to 
all the washing of the waves of life, and blind to all the sliining 
of the sun. 

As he sits there, some look at him in awe, and whisper to 
each other of his past, and shake the head ominously as they 
think of his strange adventures sailing up and down the world. 
For he has lived much of his life in foreign lands, a wanderer 
for many years without a place whereon to rest his feet; he lias 
been a master mariner, and a trader, and an owner of sailing 
ships; and far away, long ago, he gathered wealth in some 
mysterious fashion, and brought it back with him to buy the 
ancestral acres that his father’s father lost. A stormy life and 
a terrible, say the gossips; not without blood’s sin and such 
crimes as, twice told, lift the hair and shake the soul; for if they 


6 


GOD AND THE MAN. 


speak sooth, he has sailed under the black flag on the Indian 
seas, and taken his share in the traffic of human life. Those 
who are oldest remember dimly the days of his passion and his 
— days when his hand was against every man, and when 
his very name was a synonym for hate and wrath. The women- 
folk speak, moreover, of his strength and beauty, when his 
white locks were golden as a lion’s mane, and his gray eyes 
bright with the light of the Viking race from whom he drew 
his fiery blood. 

While the mirth is loudest, pass out through the hall-door 
into the night. The great door closes with a clang; the brightr 
ness fades into the murmuring darkness of the storm. Stand on 
the lonely upland, and see the white flakes driving tumultuously 
from the sea; far across the great marsh, with Herndale Mere 
glistening in its center like a great shield, and beyond the dark 
sandhills which stretch yonder like tossing billows for miles and 
miles beyond, the sea itself is tossing and gleaming and crash- 
ing on the hard and ribbed sand of the lonely shore. The 
heavens are dark, and neither moon nor star is visible; but the 
air is full of a faint mysterious light — like moonshine, like star- 
shine, like the light that is in the filmy falling flakes. In this 
faint phosphorescence the frozen mere flashes by fits, and the 
distant sandhills loom dimly in the distance, and on every side 
gathers the whiteness of the fallen sheets of snow. 

Behind the great farm, with its windows flashing out like 
bloodshot eyes, and its shadows coming or going on the crim- 
son blinds, stretch the upland fields, deep in drift of mingled 
snow and sand; and inland, here and there, glance the light? 
from clustering homesteads and solitary farms. A lamp is 
burning in every home to-night, for all the folk are awake, and 
the coming of the Christ is close at hand. 

A long lane, deep with many a wagon -rut and closed on either 
side by blackthorn hedges, lead? from the upland, across fields 
and meadows, to the highway, only a mile along which is the 
village, and the quaint old village church. Listen closely, and 
the faint peal of bells comes to your ear in the very teeth of the 
wind!— and look, even as you listen, lights are creeping up the 
lane, and soon, shadows of human forms loom behind the 
lights, and you see the carol singers, with William Ostler from 
the Rose and Crown at their head, coming along, lanterns in 
hand, to sing at the farm door. 

William Ostler staggers as he comes, and tumbles sprawling 
into the snow; whereat there is loud laughter, and scuffling of 
heavy hobnailed feet. Young men in heavy woolen coats, and 
girls in red cloaks with warm hoods, and little boys and girls 
following behind, come trooping along the lane. Now they 
meet the bitter blast upon tlie upland, and the lanterns are 
blown out, but with the light from the farm windows to guide 
them, they come stamping along, and, facing the hall door, 
range themselves in a row. Then William, with a tipsy hic- 
cough, gives out the word, and the voices ring out loud ana 
clear. 

Scarcely has the carol begun, when all sounds cease within the 


GOD AND THE MAN. 


7 


farm; the dance has ceased, and all are standing still to listen. 
As the last note dies away, the door swings open, and Farmer 
Thorpe, with face like a ribstou pippin, and white hair blow- 
ing in the wind, stands on the threshold, with shining face? 
peeping out behind him in a blaze of rosy light. 

Come in, come in!” he cries, cheerily. “ Welcome all!” 

Stamping the snow from their boots, shaking it from their 
garments, they trooped in and gathered together at the kitchen 
end of the hall, where warm spiced ale is poured for them, and 
chunks of home-made cake put into their chilly hands. Left 
outside in the dark, the village children pelt each other with 
snowballs, and run races in the snow, and shout shrilly in 
through the keyhole, and beat with tiny mittened hands on the 
mighty door. 

It is close on midnight now. The carol-singers have gone 
their ways, to make their music elsewhere and get good enter- 
tainment for their pains. The house is full of the pleasant smell 
of meat and drink. 

But the great hall is empty; empty, that is to say, save for the 
old form sitting before the fire. There he crouches still, con- 
scious of little save the pleasant warmth; breathing faintly, 
otherwise not stirring hand or limb. 

Tlie musicians, the laborers, the farm-maidens, are busy 
feasting in the kitchen; whence comes, through the half-closed 
doors, the sound of loud guffaws, of clattering dishes and jing- 
ling glasses, of busy, shufiliug feet. There is plenty of rough 
fare, with libations of strong beer and cider and ginger-ale. In 
the low-roofed dining-room, which opens out up three oaken 
steps at the other end of the hall, the genteeler portion of the 
company sits rouinl the supper board — a snow-white cloth of 
linen, piled with roast and boiled meat, fat capons, knuckles of 
ham and veal, Christmas cakes and ]>uddings, great ros}’’- 
cheeked apples, foaming jugs of ale, flasks of ruby-colored rum, 
and black bottles of foreign vintage. Farmer Thorpe heads the 
table in his swallow-tailed coat of bottle-green, his long buff 
waistcoat with snowy cambric at the breast and throat, his 
great silver chain with dangling charms and seals; and facing 
him, at the other end, is Mary, his good dame, splendid in silk 
and flowered brocade, with a cap, to crown all, that is the envy 
and admiration of every matron in the happy group. On either 
side are ranged the guests in their degree — Squire Orchardson 
of the Willows, a spare, thin-visaged man in deep mourning, 
having the place of honor at the farmer’s right hand, and pretty 
Mabel Orchardson, the squire's only daughter, blushing not far 
away, with young Harry Thorpe, a tall yeoman of twenty-one, 
to ply her with sweet things and sweeter looks, and to whisper 
tender nothings in her ear. The light of swinging lamps and 
country-made candles gleams all round upon happy faces, red 
and bright, with fine shadows behind of oaken furniture and 
wainscoted %valls. The mirth is real, though solemn; for the 
wine has not yet had time to tell its tale. The old folks pledge 
each other in old-fashioned style; healths go round; pretty 
maidens, sip out of the glasses of their cousins and lovers, while 


8 


GOD and the man. 


fond feet meet and knees touch, under the table. There is a 
clatter of dishes and knives and forks, a murmur of voices, 
which only ceases at intervals, when the wind shakes the house 
and causes the roof and walls to quake again. 

But all at once,' above the crying of the wind and above all 
the noise of the feast, rises a sound so shrill and terrible that all 
mirth ceases, and the company listen in terror. It sounds like 
a human shriek, coming through the half-closed door that leads 
to the hall — a human shriek, or something superhuman, so 
strangely does it ring through the merry house. Hark, again! 
There can be no doubt now. It is the shriek of a man’s voice, 
sharp, fierce, and terrible. 

The more timi«l among the company — both men and women 
— keep their seats, shiver, and look at one another; the braver 
spirits, headed by Farmer Thorpe, push through the open door, 
and gather on the steps leading down into the hall. 

In the middle of the hall stands, ghastly pale now, and ter- 
rified, the swarthy boy from Barbadoes, his hands clinched, his 
eyes staring, every fiber of him trembling with terror. Near to 
him is another boy, stronger and bigger, of coarser make and 
breed; young Walter Thorpe, the farmer’s nephew, whose father 
lives down at the Warren. A little way off, their little cousin, 
Mary Farringford, crouches dumb with terror, her large blue 
eyes dilated and misty with timid tears. 

All the three children gaze one way — the dark boy fascinated, 
like a murderer caught in the act with the murderous look of 
hate and venom found by fear upon his face and frozen there; 
young Walter, a little frightened too, but preserving a certain 
loutish stolidity; little Mary quivering like a reed. 

All gaze toward the great fireplace, for there, still fixed in his 
chair, but with head erect, eyes dilating, and skinny finger- 
pointing, sits the old man, awake at last indeed! 

His mouth is still open, panting, and it is clear now that the 
shriek which startled the company came from his throat. His 
finger points to the dark boy, who recoils in dread; but his eyes 
are fixed, not on the hoy’s face, but on a glittering object which 
lies upon the floor, close to the boy’s feet. 

A.n open clasp-knife, with dagger-like blade and steel spring, 
the kind of knife that seamen use, too often, upon one another. 

Farmel’ Thorpe steps into the hall, with the wondering com- 
pany behind him. 

‘ ‘ What is the matter ?” he exclaims. Who was it that screamed 
out ?’’ 

Walter- Thorpe, who has recovered his composure, shuffles his 
feet, grins stupidly, and jerks his thumb at the old man. 

“i/m.'” he replies, with characteristic indifference to 
grammar. 

“ And what -what’s this?” cries the farmer, following the 
old man’s eyes and looking at the knife. “ Eh, eh, whose knife 
is this ?” 

“ i/fs replies Walter again, nodding his head at the other 
boy. 

“ Edgar’sl” exclaims the voice of the widow Marjorie Wells; 


CxOD AND THE MAN. 


9 


and as she speaks she comes forward, very pale, and toucnes her 
son with an angry hand. “ Edgar, what does it mean ?” 

He scowls, and makes no answer. 

“ Have you been quarreling?” she continues, sternly. How 
dare you quarrel, you wicked boy ?” 

“ He struck me,” pants Edgar, still with a murderous look in 
llis f3,C0 

“ No, I didn’t,” cries Walter. 

“ Yes, you did.” 

“ I didn’t— leastways till you pushed me against little Mary 
and threw her down. Then when I slapped your face, you pulled 
out that knife, and tried to stick me like a pig!” 

A murmur of horror runs through the company. 

“ You hear, madam ?” says Farmer Tliorpe, sharply. “ I think 
your boy’s to blame, and if he was my son I’d give him a sound 
thrashing. Fancy the young imp carrying a knife like that, and 
trying to use it too.” 

“ Edgar is passionate,” says the widow, haughtily; “ but I dare 
say he was provoked.” 

“ He said that I was black,” cries Edgar, looking up at his 
mother with his great eyes, “ and that when I was a man I ought 
to marry a black woman— and cousin Mary laughed— and so I 
pushed him; and when he struck me, I pulled out my knife and 
I would have stabbed him, if grandfather had not screeched 
out.” 

“Fine doings o’ Christmastide,” exclaims Farmer Thorpe, 
shaking his head grimly; “ and look you now at father,” he 
continues, passing across to the old man, who still keeps the 
same position, with eyes staring and finger pointing. “ How 
goes it, father ? Come, come, what ails you nov/ ?” 

At the voice of his son, the old man drops his outstretched 
arm, and begins to mutter quietly to himself. 

“ Eh ?” says Farmer Thorpe, putting down his ear to listen. 
“ Speak up, father.” 

The words are faint and feeble exceedingly, but they are just 
intelligible: 

“ Take — away — the knife!” 

At a signal from the farmer, one of the neighbors lifts the 
knife from the floor, touches the spring, closes it, and hands it 
over to the farmer, who forthwith consigns it to the lowest 
depths of his breeches pocket. All the company look on, 
breathless, as if upon a veritable miracle — the dead coming back 
to life. 

There is a pause. Then again the feeble voice comes from the 
worn-out frame. 

“ My son John.” 

“ Call them! — call the children!” 

For a moment the farmer is puzzled, but seeing the old man’s 
eyes again wander toward young Edgar Wells, he begins to 
comprehend. 

“Come here, '’•he says sharply; “ grandfather wants you.” 

The boy at first shrinks back, then, with natural courage, 


10 


GOD AND THE MAN. 


forces a smile of bravado, and comes boldly forward. As be 
passes into the crimson firelight, the old man’s eyes perceive 
him, and the wrinkled face lightens. But the next instant the 
feeble eyes look round disappointed. 

“ Both,” he murmurs — “ both ray children.” 

Again the farmer is puzzled, but his good dame, with woman’s 
wit, hits the mark at once. 

“ I think he wants our nephew Walter,” she says softly. “ Go 
to him, Walter.” 

With a sheepish grin, Walter Thorpe steps forward, and so the 
two boys stand face to face close to the old man’s knee. As his 
feeble gaze falls upon them, his lips tremble, and he gazes 
vacantly from one to the other from beneath his rheumy lids. 
Then suddenly reaching out one hand, he holds Walter by the 
jacket-sleeve, and with the other, which trembles like a leaf, 
tries to clutch at Edgar. But Edgar, startled by the sudden 
movement, has shrunk back afraid. 

“What doth he mean?” whispered a neighbor. 

“Now, God be praised!” says Dame Thorpe, “I think he 
means the lads to make friends. See, Marjorie, how he feels out 
to touch your boy; and hark; what is he saying ?” 

They listen closely and at last they catch the words: 

“ The children — put their hands into mine.” 

At a look from tlie farmer, Walter puts his coarse brown hand 
between the old man’s trembling fingers, which close over it and 
clutch it convulsively. But Edgar scowls and hangs aloof, till 
his mother comes forward and touches him. 

“ Put out your hand — at once.” 

Thus urged, the boy partly stretches out his arm, when the 
widow takes his hand and places it, like the other’s, between the 
old man’s fingers. As the hands of the two boys touch in that 
sinewy cage, which now holds them firm as iron, their eyes 
meet with a momentar}’ gleam of defiance, then fall. 

“ Hush!” murmurs Dame Thorpe, softly; and there is a long 
silence. The old man’s lips move, but no sound comes from 
them. His eyes no longer seek the faces aroijnd him, but are 
half closed, as if in prayer. 

Presently there is a faint murmur. The farmer bends down 
big ear, and catches the words murmured very feebly: 

“Love one another.” 

Deeper stillness follows, and a solemn awe fills the hearts of 
all the company. Presently the old man’s hands relax, and 
with a quiet sigh, he leans back smiling in his chair. His dim 
eyes open and look round, his lips begin to move quietly again. 

“ Wlien T was a boy ” 

They catch no more, for the words die away, and he seems to 
fall into a doze, perhaps into a dream of the days that once have 
been. 

While he thus lies, and while the company return with 
spirits solemnized to table, let us stay by him in the lonely hall, 
and with eyes fixed upon , the fire, recall the troubled memories 
of his life. . 


GOD AND THE MAN. 


11 


CHAPTER n. 

THE YEARS ROLL BACK— A DEATH-BED. 

As far back as he could remember — wlien, though his hodj^ 
was a useless log, and his eyes dim with dust of age, his 
memory was still green— the Christiansons had hated the Or- 
chardsons and the Orchardsons had returned the hate with in- 
terest. The two families were heat and frost, fire and water, 
peace and war; their spirits could never cross each other with- 
out pain. Physically, even, they were as unlike as tall stalwart 
trees of the forest and creeping shrubs of the common, the male 
Christiansons, tall stalwart yeomen of six foot upward; the Or- 
chardsons, narrow-chested, stooping figures, below the middle 
height. 

There was, however, this great difference between them; good 
luck was ever on the one side, while the other seldom throve. 
A shilling in the pocket of an Orchardson multiplied itself to a 
pound, and the pound to ten, and the ten to a hundred; while 
in the pockets of a Christianson, hundreds melted like w-ithered 
leaves, like the cheating pieces given to foolish folk by the 
fairies. The Christiansons never could keep money; the Or- 
chardsons never could let it go. For all this, and for a thousand 
other reasons, they hated each other the more. 

It was such an old hate, such a settled feud, that no one 
quite knew when or how it began; indeed, there \yas a general 
disposition in the neighborhood to trace it back-to a mythical 
period, somewhat further back than the Conquest. -' But certain 
it was, that even in the times of the great Civil Wars, the two 
families were on different sides — cavalier Orchardsons hunted 
down by roundhead Christiansons, and being hunted down in 
turn, when, at last, with the’TVlerry Monarch came time and op- 
portunity. 

Mention a Christianson to an Orchardson, and the latter would 
look evil, shrug shoulders, and show a certain sort of easy hate 
tempered with proud contempt. Name an Orchardson to a 
Christianson, and it was a very different matter; the blood in 
his veins would turn to gall, his gorge would rise, and he would 
feel his strong frame convulsed with wrath, while his hands 
were clinched for a blow. The Orchardsons were more than 
shadows on the lives of the Christiansons; the very thought of 
them lay like lead upon the breast, choking the wholesome 
breath. 

As years went on, and milder influences supervened, the 
fierceness of the vendetta between the two families died away, 
leaving only a great frosty chill, in which the families, without 
any active hostility, fell further and further asunder. The 
Orchardsons remained at the old manor house, ever increasing 
their substance both in money and land. The Christiansons 
kept tight hold of their farms down toward Herndale Mere and 
the sea, but it was whispered in more than one wise quarter 
that they were deeply involved, and that when Robert Christian- 


12 


GOD AND THE 3IAN, 


SOD, the reigning head of the house, went the way of all flesh, 
there would be revelations. 

One evening, late in autumn, as young Tom Riidyard, the doc- 
tor’s assistant, sat quietly smoking a pipe in the bar parlor of 
the Rose and Crown, with pretty Nancy Parkinson by his side, 
and buxom Mrs. Parkinson looking on with a smile, he received 
an unexpected summons. A tall young lad of about fourteen, 
clad in rough yeoman costume, and carrying a riding switch, 
came bolt into the room. 

Tom started up guiltily, for he knew that to enter that bar 
parlor was forbidden to Dr. Marshman’s assistants (all of whom 
had in succession “gone^ wrong” through a too great love of 
festivity), and then, recognizing the new comer, grinned and 
gave a "hoarse laugh. Standing thus erect, the young doctor 
showed a very long spare body and attenuated legs, clad in a 
costume rather too loud for that of a regular practitioner, and 
encroaching indeed on the privileged style of the jaunty veter 
inary surgeon. 

“What, Master Christian, is it you?’’ cried Nancy, with a 
smile; then, seeing at once by the boy’s pale face that some- 
thing was wrong, she added, “Is anything the matter?” 

“ Yes,” answered the lad with quivering lips. “The doctor’s 
wanted at once up to the farm. Father’s taken bad.” 

One cry of commiseration rose from the two women. 

“What is it?” asked Tom, reaching up for his beaver hat, 
which hung on a hook behind the door. “Not a fit, I hope? 
At his time of life ” 

“ Don't waste time talking,” said the boy, “ but come along. 
Mother sent for the old doctor, but he’s out and away at Deep- 
dale; so 1 came to look after i/ott.” 

Although he was only a boy, he spoke with a certain author- 
ity, and through his great height and powerful frame, looked 
almost a man; certainly a man in strength, though his form was 
as yet shapeless and awkward, and his hands and feet too large. 
That he was greatly troubled and alarmed was shown by his 
bloodless face and the pale, dry lips, which he moistened every 
moment with the tip of his tongue. 

“ It’s a goodish stretch up to the farm,” said the young doctor, 
with a rueful glance at the coal fire. “ I shall want a horse.” 

“ Take my mare,” returned the lad; “ she’s standing at the 
door, and she’ll carry you up at a gallop.” 

“ I dare say, and break my neck on the road. I don’t know 
a yard of the way.’’ 

“ But the mare does; give her her head, and she’ll go home 
straight as a sliot.” . 

Dr. Tom still looked doubtful. 

“ I shall want my instruments, may be.” 

“ Then do you ride on, while 1 go to the surgery, and bring 
them after you. I’ll take the short cut across the marsh, and 
be there nigh as soon as you.” 

Walking out to the front door of the inn, they saw the light 
from the porch flashing against a great wall of rainy blackness. 
It was a wild night of wind and rain, The sign was shrieking 


ODD AND THE MAN. 


13 


and tossing like a corpse in chains, and the air was fall of a 
rushing hiss of water. 

In front of the door, just discernible in the darkness, stood a 
dripping horse, or pony, held by a ragged srable-boy. 

“ Lord, what a night!” cried the doctor, with a shiver, and an 
inward imprecation on the inconsiderate people who were taken 
ill in such weather. 

“Quickl quick!” said the young Master Christianson, impa- 
tiently. “ Mount the pony.” 

“ Is he quiet?” 

“Asa lamb— only mind to give him his head.” 

Quiet as a lamb he indeed seemed, standing drawn together 
in the rain, perfectly still; but no sooner were the young doc- 
tor’s long legs thrown over him, than he was off at a bound. 
The rider had only just time to clutch the bridle, and to utter a 
startled yell — then darkness swallowed him up. 

Good Mistress Parkinson stood at the inn door, with her 
daughter at her side. * 

“Master Christianson,” she cried, as the lad moved away; 
adding as he turned his head, “ let me get you a drop of warm 
ale or a posset. You be soaking through.” 

The lad shook his head, and buttoning his coat tight round his 
throat, ran swiftly from the inn door, leaving the good woman 
full of perplexity and simple pity. For Christian, though a 
wild and headstrong lad, or rather just because he was head- 
strong and wild, was a prime favorite in all that neighborhood. 
“ The true Christianson* breed,” all admitted, with wise shakes 
of the head and a secret admiration — quarrelsome, irritable, 
fierce, and fiery, yet withal forgiving and open-handed; proud, 
like his father and mother before him, of the old name and of 
the typical family strength; so strong and handsome, that young 
maid's, much his elders, had already been known to cast tender 
looks at him; yet so simple and boy-like, that he preferred snar- 
ing a rabbit or setting a wood cock* springs to the brightest pair 
of eyes in Christendom. 

Swift as a deerhound, he ran up through the village, setting 
his right shoulder against the slanting rain, until he reached the 
old doctor’s cottage, and knocked sharply at the little low door. 
An old woman opened, and with scarcely a word to her, he ran 
into the parlor, or “surgery,” looking for the fdoctor’s case of 
instruments, and for such simple remedies as might be needed. 
As he searched, he rapidly explained to the old dame, who knew 
him well, the state of affairs; and then, having secured what 
he wanted and buttoned them tight under his coat, he ran out 
again into the rain. 

Swiftly still he ran along the dark road, not losing breath, 
though it was rough and steep; presently, with one bound, he 
leaped a hedge and alighted in a field of rainy stubble. Though 
he seemed to be in pitch darkness, it was clear that he knew 
€very inch of the way, as crossing a field, he came out upon an 
open common or waste, covered with dark rainy pools. Across 
the common, and up a miry lane; then be saw flashing on a hill- 
side before him the lights of a farm, 


14 


GOD AND THE MAN, 


When he reached the farm door, he found it standing open, 
and Dr. Tom, splashed from head to toe, on the point of enter- 
ing, while the little mare, which he had ridden in fear and des- 
peration, was standing with head down, quiet as a lamb. 

“ How’s father ?” asked the lad in a whisper, as he followed 
the doctor into the hall. 

A shock-headed farm-maiden answered something in a whis- 
per, and Christian led the way up-stairs. Passing up a broad 
oaken staircase, he reached an cper, corridor, out of which 
opened several doors; approaching one of which he knocked 
softly. 

The door was immediately opened by a young girl, about a 
year older than himself. 

She put her finger on her lips, as he was about to speak, and 
beckoned the doctor, who quietly approached. 

In a large old-fashioned bedroom, vvith a polished floor of 
slippery black oak, and a low ceiling close to the black rafters 
of the roof, vvas a large wooden bedstead, on which lay the 
figure of a man, a great, gaunt yeoman, with iron-gray hair 
and clean shaven face. Some of his clotlies had been hastily 
thrown off, and by the bedside were his high riding-boots; 
but be still wore his shirt and waistcoat, the former torn open 
to free the powerful workings of the throat. His eyes were 
closed, his face ghastly pale, his whole attitude that of ex- 
haustion and heavy stupor, and his breathing was very heavy 
and hard. 

By the bedside stood a tall, pale matron, some few years his 
senior, and close to her, on a chair, was an open Bible. 

Dr. Tom came in on tiptoe, and standing by the bedside, sucked 
the knob of his stick, and gazed with rather vacant eyes at the 
man; then, reaching down his coarse red hand, felt the pulse, 
and found it very jerky and feeble. 

“Brandy — have you given him brandy, mistress?” be asked, 
in a hoarse whisper. 

The matron nodded her head. 

“ Well, give him some more at once, please; ’tis the only thing 
to keep life in him. How did it begin? What doth he com- 
plain of most?” 

In a low voice, the matron explained that her husband had 
been seized, while sitting at supper, with a violent pain in the 
region of the heart. He had come in very wet and weary from 
a long ride to the neighboring market town, and he had been 
fasting all day. He had been a good deal troubled, too. she 
said, and that made him neglect his food. When he was first 
seized with pain, she thought he wmuld die at once, but when he 
had drunk some spirits boiling hot, he got a little relief. Pres- 
ently another attack of pain came on, and then they got him to 
bed; and put warm bottles to his feet; since then he had been 
easier, and had seemed as if he were asleep. 

As the two stood whispering together, the sick man suddenly 
opened his eyes. 

“ Who’s that?” he said, feebly. “ Be it the doctor?” 

“ Yes,” said his wife, “ young Mr. Tom.” 


GOD AND TUN s^fAN 15 

“ Tell him I don't want no doctor’s stuff; I shall be all right 
i’ the morning.” 

“ How’s the pain, master?” asked the doctor. 

“ Middling — middling bad,” answered the patient; then with 
a groan he put his hand upon his chest. “There be a weight 
liere like a millstone, right down upon my heart.” 

“ Doth it pain you when you breathe, master?” 

“ Ay, surely! like a knife a-cutting me in twain. But I don’t 
want no physic — no, no!” 

He closed his eyes, moaning, and seemed to sink into a doze. 

Dr. Tom led the matron aside. 

“ Your good man’s powerful bad, mistress. He’ll have to be 
bled straight away.” 

“ Is he in danger, think you ?” 

“ Maybe yes, maybe no. If the blood flows free, it may ease 
his heart a bit; his viscera be gorged with black blood, mistress, 
and his heart doth not get room to beat.” 

So without more conversation or delay, the young leech 
opened a vein in the farmer’s arm. The dark blood came freely 
but feebly, and as it flowed, he really seemed to breathe with 
greater ease. When about an ounce of blood had been taken 
away, and the artery carefully bound up, he seemed to lie in 
comfortable sleep. 

“He’ll do now,” said Dr. Tom. “We’ll look round in the 
morning, and see how he thrives.” 

The matron, who had exhibited rare nerve during the blood- 
letting, and had herself assisted without a word, now looked 
wildly up in the doctor’s face. 

“Will my man live?” 

“ Why not, mistress ? See how easy he do breathe, now! Ay, 
he’ll live, I hope, for many a long year!” 

Down the great stairs slipped Dr. Tom, followed by young 
Christian. He was well satisfied with himself, and quite un- 
aware that, in the true spirit of the science (or nescience) of 
those days, he had finished his man, and drawn from an ex- 
hausted arterial system its last chance of recovering its shattered 
strength. 

“ Will you ride back?” asked the boy. 

“On the back of that brimstone mare? — not I. I’d rather 
walk barefoot, young master. Good-night.” 

The lad did not offer to escort him beyond the door; but 
leaving him to wander home as he might along the dark 
roads, returned to the room up-stairs, and rejoined his mother 
and sister. 

That night none of the three retired to rest. The mother sat 
watching by the bedside, while the girl and lad sat upon the 
hearth, waiting and listening. Not a sound broke the silence 
but the monotonous breatliing of the sick man, and a faint mur- 
mur from the lips of the mother, as, with horn-rimmed spec- 
tacles upon her nose, and the old Bible upon her knee, she read 
softly to herself. 

The room was dimly illumined by the faint rays of a wood 
fire, and by the light of a small oil-lamp, which was fastened 


16 


GOD AND THE MAN 


against the wall over the chimney-piece. Seen even thus, the 
boy and girl seemed made in very different molds: he, strong, 
herculean, rough, with blue eyes, and curly flaxen hair; she, 
tall, thin, and delicate, with swarthy skin, dark eyes and chest- 
nut hair. The boy, in his build and complexion, resembled the 
figure on the bed. The girl resembled the wan woman who sat 
reading by the bedside. 

Cliristian Christianson was scarce fourteen years old; his sister 
Kate was rather more than a year older. Their parents had 
married somewhat late in life, and the two children were the 
only living issue of the match. 

Both in name and frame did the rough lad show his Scandi- 
navian origin, his connection with those far-off ancestors of his 
who swept down from the north in the old times, harried the 
seas and the sea-coasts, and scattered their seed far and wide 
on those tracts of territory which pleased them best. Nothing 
foreign seemed to have entered the light current of his blood. 
While he lay there, rough and awkward as a lion's cub, he might 
have been taken for the heir of some old viking, bespattered 
from his cradle with the salt sea-foam. 

But young Christian was heir to little save tlie surname of his 
father and the monopoly of certain fruitless feuds. His fatlier 
and his father’s father had farmed the lands verging on the 
great sandhills, and within hearing of the sea; and it was to be 
supposed that he would farm them also, when his turn came. 
His father’s father had died in debt, and his father had b^en 
more or less in debt when he was born, and the shadow of mys- 
terious obligations had been over the house ever since he could 
remember. He had been brought up to no profession, and 
with no particular occupation; but by looking on and using 
his wits, as boys can, he had learned a little of farming, and 
the value of farm stock. His education had been rough-and- 
ready enough. While his sister could play a little on the harp- 
sichord. and sew a fine sampler, besides being able to read and 
write fairly, he possessed no accomplishments, save, of course, 
those which he had acquired by sheer force of physical courage 
and pei-severance. He could sit any horse barebacked, he knew 
every beast of the field and fowl of the air, he could wrestle 
and swim, and he was an excellent shot at birds on the wing — 
this last being a much rarer accomplishment in those days than 
we, with our modern notions, might imagine. But he had lit- 
tle or no taste for books, and beyond a good ear for a tune, and 
a good deep voice, which might have' made him a fair singer, 
little capacity for any of the arts. 

As he sat before the fire, his eyes were lifted ever and again 
to the pallid face of his mother, who read on monotonously to 
herself. Kate Christianson sat with her hands in her lap, gaz- 
ing at the fire. So hour after hour passed, until it was past mid- 
night: and then, all at once, the invalid’s sleep began to grow 
disturbed. He tossed upon his pillow, and clutched the coun- 
terpane with his strong hand, muttering half-articulate sounds. 
Suddenly his wife started as if stung, for she heard the souud 
of a hated name. 


GOD AND THE MAN. 


17 


“ Five thousand five hundred pounds . . . five per cent, per 
annum . . . Richard Orchardson, his heirs and assigns . . . wit- 
ness ” Here his words became inarticulate, until he added, 

gasping, his own name, “ Robert Christianson, of the Fen.” 

Young Christian heard, and looked up with a strange darkness 
on his fair face. 

“ Mother,” he whispered, ‘*did you hear?” 

“ Hush!” cried the matron, with uplifted finger; for her hus- 
band's eyes had opened again, fixing themselves strangely upon 
hers. They watched for a few moments, then with a low cry, 
the man started up and tried to spring out of bed. 

“ Father ! father I” cried Mistress Christianson, rising and 
pushing him back. “What ails you, father? Christian, come 
—help to hold him down.” 

The lad sprung up, and putting his strong arms gently round 
his father, tried to soothe him ; for it was clear that his wits 
were wandering. 

“ Who’s that ? My son Christian ?” 

“ Yes, father.” 

“ Get me my hat and staff, lad. I be going out.” 

“ Not to-night, father.” 

“ Ay, to-night. Tell thy mother 'not to sit up, for I shall be 
late.” 

“ Speak to him, mother!” 

“ Father, don’t you know me?” cried his wife. 

“ Ay, ay, dame. I know thee well enough, but I cannot stay 
talking. I be going out.” 

“ Where are you going?” 

“ Down to the Willows. I must see Dick Orchardson, and 
tell him my mind.” 

The listeners looked at one another aghast. The very men- 
tion of tJie name of an Orchardson sounded strange on those 
lips, but to hear one of the liated brood named so glibly, as a 
being with whom it was possible under any circumstances to 
liave human intercourse, was positively startling. 

“ God help him!” cried his wife with a cold shiver. 

Exhausted by his efforts to rise, the farmer sank back upon 
his pillow. His breathing was now very difficult, and his face 
was convulsed as if with acute pain. They moistened his lips 
with brandy, and chafed his trembling hands. 

“Father!” cried Christian, trembling; and Kate, standing 
close to him, echoed his tender cry. 

The farmer opened his eyes again, and looked round. 

“Who’s there. Is that my boy Christian ?” 

“ Yes, father.” 

“ Come closer, lad, and take my hand. Where’s thy mother?’ 

“ Here, father,” said Mistress Christianson. “Oh Christian, 
thy father’s dying!” 

“ No, no, mother,” cried the boy. 

“ Tell Dick Orchardson ” 

So far the farmer spoke, then paused again. Again that 
hated name. 

There was a long pause. The farmer lay with eyes wide 


18 


GOD AND THE MAN. 


open, looking upward, and muttefing to himself. They could 
make nothing now of his words, and a dreadful awe was upon 
them, for the shadow of the coming angel was already upon his 
face. Kate Christianson cast herself dovvn by the bedside, hid- 
ing her face and sobbing wildly. The mother stood gaunt and 
pale, her dim eyes on the man who had been her loving coni- 
panion so many long years. The lad, clutching his father's 
chilly hand, was trembling like a leaf. 

So they waited, and it seemed, in that solemn moment, that 
the chamber grew dark. Oh, that dreadful silence of the cham- 
ber of death! The poet speaks of “ darkness visible;” this is si- 
lence heard — a silence ominous aud strange, in which the very 
beating of the heart is audible, and we feel tlie stirring motion 
of the unconscious life within. 

They listened and waited on. At last a few faint words were 
audible. 

“ Down by the four-acre mere. Is that Dick Orchardsou ? 

Tell him Get me a light, lad, I cannot see the letters, I 

cannot read Ask thy mother, forgive, forgive ” 

One last faint cry, and the voice was forever still. Of what 
was a living face but a few moments before, only a marble 
mask remained. All knelt and prayed, for the shadow which 
follows all men was in the room. 


CHAPTER III. 

SHADOWS AT THE FEN FARM. 

When Robert Christianson was dead and buried, there came 
at last the revelations that had long been predicted. First of 
all, it was discovered in a general w^ay that he was far more 
heavily in debt than any one had guessed; that, indeed, his 
affairs were a raveled skein which it would take all the in- 
genuity of the law or all its cruelty lo disentangle. Then, when 
the various threads of obligation were separated from each 
other, and the widow and her children thought that the coast 
was clear, came a letter, like a thunderbolt, announcing that 
the freehold of the greater part of the farm lands was under a 
mortgage, that the interest was long in arrear, and that, to 
crown all, the holder of the fatal mortgage w'as their hereditary 
enemy, Richard Orchardson of the Willows. 

At first it W'as too horrible for belief. The very thought was 
an outrage on the beloved dead. The widow sat with stern 
skeptical face, while the boy Christian w'as loud in his expres- 
sion of indignation. ■ But confirmation quickly came. It was 
made only too clear that the deceased farmer, in the extremity 
of his distress, had accepted assistance from the enemy of his 
father and his father’s father, and had given as substantial 
security the mortgage upon the choicest of the farm lands. 

Bitterer even than death itself came the humiliating discov- 
ery; bitterer, because for the moment it killed all reverence and 
respect for the poor dead, and showed him as a man yielding, 
forgetful, and barren of pride. Better to have starved, "thought 
the widow, tlian to have sought or taken succor from that 


OOD AISD THE MAN. 


19 


quarter. Alaf?! she little kuew how loug and terrible had been 
the farmer’s struggle before he did yield, bow cruel the pang 
had been, and how the pain of the secret had preyed upon tlie 
poor man’s heart, until it broke in shame. 

When all was thought that could be thought, the mother and 
son spoke out by the fireside, while Kate looked sadly on. 

“ ’Twas a trap for thy poor father,” said the widow% “ be sure 
of that. Dick Orchardson set it many a long year, and at last 
thy father, poor man, was caught. Ah, if he had only come 
home to me and told me of his trouble. This comes of having 
secrets out-o’-doors.” 

“What shall we do, mother?” asked Christian. “Can we 
pay the money ?” 

“ Nay, my boy.” 

“ And Lawyer Jeffries hath given notice that we must pay 
up or yield the land.” 

“ One or other, Christian.” 

The lad clinched bis hands and uttered a fierce cry. 

“Theysha’n’t take the land away from thee, mother. Let 
them try it! I’ll go down to the Willows, and make old Dick 
Orchardson own it was all a cheat, and if he denieth it ” 

The boy paused, livid with hate and rage. As he did so, his 
sister Kate, who had been looking on in terror, interposed tear- 
fully. 

“ Nay, who knows,” she said, “but the squire is rppre kindly 
than folk say? Why did he lend our father the money, and 
help him out of his trouble, if he hated him so much?” 

“Hear her, mother!” cried Christian; “hear the foolish 
wench! And yet she hath heard the preacher say that figs grow 
not on thistles, and roses spring not from thorns. An Orchard- 
son kindly! Mother, do you hear?” 

“ Kate is a girl,” returned the widow, grimly, “ she cannot 
understand. It began long since.” 

“What began, mother?” asked Kate. 

“ The trouble between our houses. If there had ne’er been 
any Orchardsons, we should be rich folk now. They robbed thy 
father’s father a hundred years ago.” 

“ But, mother ” 

“ ’Tis something in the blood,” crieil the widow, “ A fox is a 
fox, and a kestrel a kestrel, and an Orchardson is an Orchard- 
son, till the world doth end. The wicked breed! If God would 
blot it out.” 

“ Amen, mother,” cried Christian; and Kate, knowing their 
temper, did not dare to say another word: 

So it remained in their minds as a settled thing that Robert 
Christianson had, by some kind of devilish malignity, been 
beguiled into taking help of the Orchardsons, whose sole desire 
had been to crush the hapless family, and perchance close the 
mortgage. They waited a little time in great dread and anger; 
but no more word came from the lawyers, and their whole lives 
were poisoned by the suspense. 

That portion of the freehold embraced in the mortgage in- 
cluded the best and richest part of the farm lands, leaving un- 


20 


GOD AND THE MAN, 


touohed ouly some ninety acres and the old farm-house, which 
latter had fallen into great dilapidation, and stood, quite soli- 
tary, over against the sandhills, with its face from the sea, 
which formed a broad estuary two miles away. Inland before 
it stretcljed the farm fields, in a great hollow which had once 
been a fen, and still bore that name, but sloping gradually to 
rich pastures and clumps of cheerful wood. Over these past- 
ures and woods peeped the village spire— the glistening of 
which, in all kinds of weather, was a cheerful and comfortable 
sight to the inmates of the farm. 

The very solitude of the situation gave to the owners of the 
Fen Farm a feeling of possession and mastery. Standing at his 
own door, a Christianson was monarch of all he surveyed — of 
the broad and comparatively barren acres of the old fen; of the 
narrow osier-fringed stream which wound through these acres, 
and then, curving suddenly, ran in among the sandhills toward 
the sea; of the rich slopes beyond, where Crops waved green 
and yellow, or frosty stubble glittered, through the various sea- 
sons of the year. There was only the spire to remind him of 
the world of men beyond, of the red-tiled village hidden from his 
sight, and of the heaven above. Then the sandhills behind the 
house were his; and these, though comparatively worthless, and 
only affording combes of arid pasture for cattle here and there, 
were large in extent, and gave a lordly sense of territorial sway. 
And among the sandliills was the rabbit warren, let to a cousin 
of the family, on profitable terms. 

With the ancient freehold of the Fen Farm went, by right im- 
memorial, the privilege of coursing and shooting. Every boy 
Christianson might mn a bound, or handle a gun, on his own 
acres. Not only did rabbits swarm in the sandhills, but the 
sands were the resort, at certain seasons, of the hare, which 
would seek deserted rabbit- burrows and lie there till discovered 
perdu, and hunted out by man or dog. 

Small wonder, then, if the Christiansons loved the place, and 
clung to every inch of the soil. Even the house, though a 
rambling tenement and scarcely weather-proof, with cheerless 
rooms and rat-haunted wainscots, was very dear to them for 
the sake of the generations which had lived and died within. 
In summer time, with its red front covered with creepers 
and wild roses, its dove-cote on the red tiled roof, and the white 
doves wheeling and settling in the sunlight, it looked quite 
pretty and bright. There was an ancient orchard, too, with 
broken-down walls, and trees so old and gnarled they yielded 
little fruit, and grass as thick and deep as the grass that grows 
on graves. 

But if the cruel debt of the mortgage was not paid, what re- 
mained? Only the old house, and the sand pasturages, and the 
arid acres of the old fen; only, in other words, a barren stretch 
of soil, not to be farmed with profit by any but a man of means. 
The pasturages and combes of the upland slope, which overfilled 
the eye with a certain sense of prosperity— the woods where the 
nightingale sang in summer and the woodcock was flushed in 
the frost— the rich fields which grew the best grain— all these 


GOD AXD THE MAN. 


2Z 

would surely go. It was an ugly thought. To stand at the 
farm door, and know that possession ceased at the stream, and 
that the cattle grazing on the slopes beyond belonged to another, 
would be almost too much to bear. 

A few days after mother and son had discussed that cruel 
business of the mortgage, and come to the conclusion that 
deviltry bad been at work, young Christian was ramblingamong 
the sandhills with his greyhound Luke— an English dog, with a 
cross of the coarser Irish breed. Not far from the farm, he 
came upon the track of a hare, printed with filigree delicacy in 
the sand. The marks were confused and mingled, crossing and 
recrossing one another, for poor puss had been obviously “run- 
ning races in the mirth ” through the morning dew, but at last 
the Jad hit upon the true trail. It led him a good mile between 
the sandhills. On the top of each sandhill or mound grew thick 
coarse cotton grass and grassy weeds, and whenever the track 
led thither he set the dog’s nose to work. Presently, reaching 
the summit of one of the highest of these sandhills, he came in 
sight of the long flat stretch of black sand and mud fringed by 
the waters of the sea. 

He stood for a time and gazed. The sea was quite calm, in 
the gray silver light of a still November day. with quiet clouds 
piled upon the horizon like a range of hills. A lobster-boat, 
with flapping brown sails, was crawling along by means of 
sweeps toward tlie distant fishing-beds. On one spot of the 
sands, close to the sea, was a white swarm of gulls, sitting per- 
fectly moveless, save when now and then a solitary bird would 
rise with sleepy waft of wing, fly a few yards, and settle again. 
All was very still, but from a sea creek not far distant he could 
hear from time to time the cry of the curlew. 

While he stood, he saw sailing toward him, slowly, method- 
ically, hovering always at the same distance from the earth, a 
large raven, followed at a distance of about fifty yards by 
another bird, the female. They came slowly, for each in turn, 
hovering over each sandhill, on the grassy summit of which 
something edible might hide, searched the grass for prey. 
From time to time the foremost bird uttered a thoughtful 
croak or chuckle, which the hindermost bird echoed after an in- 
terval. Christian knew the two birds well. Once, indeed, he 
had shot at the male bird at very short range, eliciting no other 
result than a defiant croak and a few falling feathers. Since 
then, he had let the birds alone. They, too, had a freehold of 
the place, and had used it for a hunting-ground years before he 
was born. 

He watched the birds carelessly, till they passed in succession 
over his head, greeting him with a croak of sublime indifference, 
and them poised slanting in the air, glided more rapidly away. 
Turning his eyes to the sea, he saw that the swarm of gulls had 
risen and were hovering in the air, their cries, made faint by 
distance, reaching him where he stood. 

Riding along the sands, at a trot, w^as a horseman, whom, in 
the distance, he did not recognize. 

Idle, and tired of hunting the hare, he sat down and watched 


22 


GOD AND THE MAN. 


tlie rider till he disappeared beliind the sandhills, and the flock 
of gulls settled again on the fringe of the sea. Then, after a 
little'time, Christian rose and walked down the side of thesand- 
liill. In the smooth hollows between the mounds, it was im- 
possible to see or be seen for many yards away; and presently, 
as he turned round a sandy corner, he came full in view of a 
gentleman on liorseback — doubtless the same he had seen ap- 
proaching by the side of the sea. 

A man of about forty years of age, dressed in velvet riding- 
coat, breeches, high boots, and low-crowned beaver hat. He 
was portly, but somewhat unhealthy-looking, his skin being 
deeply marked with the small-pox, his eyes being somewhat 
shrunken and inflamed, and his hair and short- cropped whiskers 
of deep black. 

He was not alone. By his side, upon a small Welsh pony, 
rode a boy of about twelve years of age, evidently his son, for 
he had his father’s eyes and complexion without their disfigure- 
ment. At a first glance he struck one as a disagreeable boy, 
with a supercilious expression, and a peculiar look of lying-in- 
wait. As he was riding, he did not exhibit his chief physical 
deformity. Though scarcely a cripple, he was lame. One limb 
had never grown rightly, and though he could walk tolerably, 
and comfortably, he could do so with neither ease nor grace. 

At sight of these two figures Christian turned red as crimson, 
for he knew them well. The gentleman was his father’s enemy, 
Squire Orchardson of the Willows; the boy was Richard 
Orchardson, the squire’s only son. 

To his surprise, the squire rode right up to him, along the 
sands, and then drew rein. 

“You are young Christianson of the Fen?” he asked in a 
sharp, authoritative voice. 

, Christian stood scowling, but made no answer. 

“ Have you no tongue, sirrah? I was just coming to see your 
mother.” 

Christian started as if stung, and went from red to pale. 
Meanwhile Ids greyhound, seized by a fit of excitement, began 
to bark furiously at the heels of the boy’s pony, which pranced 
and plunged, causing its rider to utter a timid cry. 

“ Call up your dog!” cried the squire. “ See you not ’tis 
frightening my son’s pony ?” 

Christian turned toward the dog and called it to him, with 
such a scowling sneer upon his face as was irritating beyond 
measure. 

“ Come, Luke,” he said, and turned away. 

“Stay!” cried Mr. Orchardson, involuntarily raising hisriding- 
w’hip. “ Is your motlier at home, boy ?” 

No reply. 

“A Christianson all over,” muttered the squire. “A cub of 
the old breed. Come, Dick.” 

So saying he trotted off with his son following; the latter as 
he urged his pony away greeting Christian with a mocking 
grimace. Christian clinched his fists while, with a shrill con- 
temptuous laugh, the boy disappeared. 


GOD AND THE MAN 


23 


His blood boiling with rage. Christian stood for some 
minutes; then, remembering the squire’s question, he began to 
hasten homeward. Was it possible that the squire meant to in- 
sult his mother by darkening her door during her affliction ? If 
so. let him take care. He would at least warn his mother. 

Excited, beyond measure, he ran among the sandhills, till, 
emerging from them, he came in full view of the farm. 

He was too late. 

The squire and his son were sitting on horseback before the 
farmdoor; the squire was talking and gesticulating loudly, and 
on the threshold, as if pointing them from it, was Mistress 
Christianson, stern, and pale as death. 

Christian strode up to the door and joined the group, just in 
time to hear the last few words of their conversation. 

“I am sorry you are so bitter, dame,” the squire was saying; 
“ God knoweth, I have no wish to be hard upon you, and I will 
gladly grant you grace.” 

“ We want no grace from an Orchardson,” answered the 
dame; “ I pray you, sir, quit my door.” 

“ Yes, quit our door!” echoed Christian, coming up at this 
moment. 

“Like cub, like vixen,” muttered the man to himself; then, 
turning to bis son, who sat smiling upon his pony, he added, 
“ Come, Dick, we are not wanted here.” 

The boy laughed, and said something in a whisper, which 
brought a dark smile to his father’s cheek. At the whisper and 
the look, Christian felt sick with mingled hate and rage; and 
he made a movement with clinched hands as if to advance 
upon the pair, when his mother put her hand upon his arm to 
command him back. 

So the two Orchardsons, father and son, rode slowly from 
the door, the boy pausing a moment at the gate to give a 
wicked laugh and sneer, before he cantered away by his father's 
side. 

“Mother, what did they want?” asked Christian, trembling. 

The dame did not reply; she was too busy with her own 
gloomy thoughts. Turning back into the house and entering 
the dark wainscoted parlor, she took down the old Bible from 
its niche, put on her horn spectacles, and began to read, as was 
invariably her custom when her dark hour was upon her. 
Rocked upon the dreary billows of her favorite “Psalms,” she 
felt with David the terror and the tumult of a wild unrest. In 
imagination, at least, her enemies were now scattered and smit- 
ten hip and thigh, and her soul went up in gloomy thankful- 
ness to God. 


CHAPTER TV. 

SOWING THE BLACK SEED. 

Emerging from her trance of wrathful prayer. Mistress 
Christianson gradually led her children to understand the real 
facts of the interview between herself and Richard Orchardson. 
The hereditary enemy of her husband and her family had, it ap- 


24 


GOD AND THE MAN. 


peared, made overtures of a seemingly friendly nature, and bad 
offered, if the dame wished it, to withdraw all pressure for the 
payment of the mortgage money. He had no wish, he said, to 
be too hard on a helpless woman, or to visit the husband’s folly 
and improvidence on the head of his widow. At this first al- 
lusion to the dead, she had been unable to restrain her indigna- 
tion, and in a few fierce words she had launched her life-long 
hate at her enemy’s head, demanding that he should cease to 
darken her door. 

“ Why did be come to the house he had made desolate?” she 
now cried, angrily. “To lay some other trap, sure, for the 
folk he hath destroyed. I knew when he rode up, with that 
fox- smile upon his face, and the boy grinning by his side, that 
he meant some hidden mischief; so that, when he spoke of 
kindness, my soul went sick.” 

“ And mine too,” said Christian, “ when I met them i’ the 
sands.” 

Days passed, and the Christiansons heard no more of the 
Orchardsons. The}'^ w^aited and waited, in hourly dread and ex- 
pectation of the fatal missive which should announce to them 
that the mortgage would be closed, and the money due realized 
on the land. But the missive did not come; instead of it, there 
was an ominous silence. At last, however, some w^eeks after 
the interview at the farm door, came another letter from Law- 
yer Jeffries, on behalf of Richard Orchardson, requesting in 
formal terms, but polite, the payment of the moneys due. To 
this the dame replied curtly, saying that payment was impos- 
sible, and that, to make an end, the mortgagee was at liberty to 
take what course he pleased. This brought over Lawyer Jeffries 
in person — a little, hard, dry, but good-natured man of business, 
who drove down in his gig from the neighboring town ten miles 
away. 

He w’as closeted with the dame for hours, and Christian, 
listening at the door, could hear high words from his mother, 
and soft, persuasive periods from the visitor. Lawyer Jeffries 
strongly advised a policy of conciliation. His client, he avowed, 
had no wish to press hard upon the widow, though she was en- 
tirely in his power, and he himself was sure that, if she only 
asked respectfully for ti»ne and consideration, both would be 
given. It was throwing words away, however. The good 
dame was obstinately resolved never to as;k any favor from the 
man who, she devoutly believed, had planned her husband’s 
ruin . 

The little lawyer rode away in despair; but being, as we have 
said, a good-natured man, and kind-hearted svithal, he carried 
to the squire such a message as seemed conciliatory enough, and 
Orchardson, who had just then no mind for harsh measures, 
instructed him to let the matter stand. So weeks passed away, 
and though the Christiansons were still in constant anticipation 
of a notice of ejectment from the rich Fen lands, nothing more 
was said or done. 

The doubtful peace thus attained between the two houses 
might have lasted long but for one of those events, trifling in 


OOD AND THE MAN. 25 

themselves but often fatal in their issues, which so often com- 
plicate the relations of human beings. 

One day in December, Christian took his gun, and, followed 
by his sister, strolled out over the fen lands. Their larder was 
empty, and he was looking for a hare. Though it was winter, 
the weather was almost springlike. The mist had lifted like a 
night-cap from the fens, and from the clear patches in the sky 
the sun sent down revivifying rays, as if to inspire new joy and 
bring fresh hope to the heart of every man, now Christmas-tide 
was nigh. It brought cheer at least to young Christian Chris- 
tianson, who, strolling along over the fen, with his gun slung 
across his shoulder, had probably never felt more magnanimous 
in his life. 

The mingled feelings of stern pride and bitter hatred, which 
had been handed to him as the woful inheritance of his house, 
and had taken their place only too firmly in his heart, seemed 
to fade temporarily before the beneficent light of the sky. The 
words which his dying father had uttered came back to him, 
and resounded again and again in his ears like a wail of ad- 
monishment and pain. “Forgive — forgive!” Yes, those had 
been the last words on the lips of the poor worn-out man, and 
no one had hoard them but the family whose souls, warped with 
hatred, sick with pain, were only too ready to forget that dy- 
ing prayer. Christian, at any rate, had not quite forgiven even 
his father; and as for the Orchardsons, he had met hate with 
hate, scorn with scorn; and while standing up, as he thought, 
in manly defense of his house, he had plunged into the blackest 
gloom of a mad inferno. But to-day, boy though he was, he 
asked himself why should these things be ? why not bury the 
past, as generations of men are buried, and wfth the help of 
God look forward to bright and happy days to come? 

Forgive? nay, he did not feel even yet that he could forgive 
— that he possessed sufficient strength to reach forth his hand 
in friendship to human beings wiio had so often and so cruelly 
stung him and his. Forgiventjss such as that would be unnat- 
ural, would demand superhuman strength and kindliness. 

The utmost he could do was what he then resolved to do: bury 
the Orchardsons deep down amid the ruins of the sad and bitter 
past; and with all memory of their existence blotted from his 
soul try to live a new life. 

He paused, and turned to his sister Kate, who was walking 
quietly beside him. 

“Kate,” he cried, “think you, when our father lay a-dying, 
and said ‘ Forgive — forgive,’ he meant that devil’s brood up at 
the Hall?” 

“ Nay, I know not,” answered Kate, timidly, for she feared 
the theme. 

“ I think rather he meant mother to forgive 7am for ever hav- 
ing taken aid from the enemies of our house. His conscience 
pricked him sore for that misdeed.” 

“ Poor father!” 

“ But he was to blame. Small wonder his conscience stung 
Jiim.” 


26 


OOD AND THE MAN 


“ Alas!” 

“ Not DOW, Kate! ” 

“Perchance Squire Orchardson meant kindly— perchance he 
will be kindly still— nay, did he not say as much ? It is mad to 
cross him ; will you not forget old troubles, and give the Orchard- 
eons your hand, and speak to mother, and then — and then ” 

She paused trembling, for Christian’s face was dark with 
passion. Poor Kate was a gentle girl, with more of her father’s 
softness than her mother’s determination. 

She was utterly incapable of feeling a life-long hatred for the 
Orchardsons, not perhaps because she was usually more tender- 
hearted than her brother, but because her memory was imper- 
fect and her feelings evanescent. She would forget a benefit as 
easily as an injury, while her brother was capable of keenly re- 
membering both. And he did remember them as he listened to 
his sister’s words— he remembered also the feelings of gladness 
and hope which had filled his soul only a few minutes before. 
He remembered also his father’s dying words, and he struggled 
to say “ I will forgive,” but his lips could not utter the words. 

“Kate,” he said, “ I can never forgive; but I’ll try, if I can, to 
forget!” 

“ Nay, Christian, say not so,” pleaded Kate, quietly. “What 
doth the Bible say ? — why, that we should forgive our enemies, 
ay, seventy times seven!” 

She paused, but her brother did not reply. His eyes were 
fixed with gloomy distrust upon an object close at hand. She 
turned, and beheld standing only a few paces off young Richard 
Orchardson of the Willows. 

He had evidently heard every word of the conversation, for 
on his pale, pinched face there was a quiet sneer. If looks of 
bitterness and hatred could kill, young Christian had at that 
moment lain dead at his feet. Kate, seeing with terribly sink- 
ing heart the dangerous looks on the faces of the two lads, en- 
deavored to become peacemaker. She laid her trembling hand 
on her brother’s arm. 

“Come, Christian,” she said, eagerly, “we’ll get home.” 

The youth, almost frightened at himself, was yielding to her 
influence, and would have walked silently away, but young Or- 
chardsou stopped them. 

“ Give me that gun,” he said, “ or you shall answer for carry- 
ing it on my father’s land!” 

Christian flushed up angrily. A hot reply came to his lips, 
but with an effort he suppressed it. 

“ Nay, not so fast, young sir,” he said. “ The Fen Farm be- 
longs to the Christiansons to-day, if it goeth to the Orchardsons 
to-morrow. ’Tis you that are a* trespassing, not I; I be on our 
own land!” 

“ You lie,” returned the other; “ the land is ours— my father 
paid for it to keep you folks from starving. ’Tis like a Chris- 
tianson to hate the hand that fed him!” 

Christian again controlled himself with a mighty effort. 

“ Nay, I’ll not talk with thee,” he muttered. “ Come, Kate.’, 

But the boy interposed. 


GOD AND THE MAH, 


27 


“ You shall not go!” he cried. “ Give me that gun, or I will 
take it from you.” 

Christian smiled grimly, amused to see the puny thing stand 
before him, pale and tremulous with passion, to hear him talk 
of using force to one who could have bent him like a reed atone 
touch of a strong hand. 

Kate turned to young Richard with outstretched hands. 

“Do not provoke my brother. He is strong, and you are so 
weak; I know he would not'wish to hurt you; but you say such 
wicked things.” 

“ My father is too soft,” cried the boy, with a sneer. “ Had I 
my will, I would rid the fields of such vermin.” Then he cried 
more angrily, “ Why did you set your cur at my pony's heels 
yesterday ? It is a foul brute, and Aaron Hart saith it has been 
seen poaching on our land. Yes, had I my will, I would serve 
the master like his dog!” 

Christian was silent; for at this moment his attention was 
drawn from the speaker by an incident more terrible to him 
than any that had yet happened in his life. The dog Luke, 
which had been gamboling freely all the morning about the fen, 
now crawled slowly’ up to its master’s feet. Every muscle in its 
poor body was contracted with intense pain, its eyes, wild and 
bloodshot, seemed to be starting from their sockets, its mouth 
was covered with foam, and with low, piteous moans it tried to 
lick and touch its master. With a sharp cry Christian fell on 
liis knees beside the poor agonized creature, while Kate, trem- 
bling w’ith fear, pity, and anguish, burst into passionate tears. 
The dog, after experiencing a minute or two of intense agony, 
seemed suddenly to become bereft of its senses, and with one or 
two wdld cries, and a terrible gnashing of teeth, fell back upon 
the fen land dead. 

A minute later, w^hen Christian raised his head, he looked 
straight into the cruel eyes of his enemy. 

For the moment young Orchardson seemed frightened; his 
cheeks were ghastly pale, and he tried to turn away. 

“ Devil!” cried Christian, gripping him. “ You have poisoned 
my dog.” 

“ ’Tis false!” cried Richard, with a guilty shiver. “ I— I did 
not touch him.” 

“There he lieth dead. To your knees— confess it — ere I 
strangle you!” 

“ Help!” shrieked the boy, w^rithing in the other’s powerful 
grasp; and Kate, tempted beyond measure, cried “ Help!” too. 
Beside himself with rage, Christian swung the boy round and 
flung him from him with one wdld push and blow. He stag- 
gered, screaming, and then fell prone upon the ground. There 
he la}^ as if senseless, while Christian, affrighted at his own 
violence, stood paralyzed, gazing down upon him. 

“ Oh, you have killed him!” cried Kate, bending above him, 
and chafing his hand. 

As she spoke the boy lifted his head, and showed his forehead 
bloody where it had struck upon a stone. .With the blood 


28 


GOD AND THE MAN. 


trickling down his face, he staggered to his feet; then, seeing 
the blood on his hands, he began to cry piteously. 

“ StopI” cried Christian, as he turned to go. “ Tell me you 
did not harm the poor hound, and I will ask your pardon.” 

Young Orchardsou made no reply, but, sobbing still, cast one 
look at the dead dog, and made a movement as if to spurn it 
with his foot: then, with a blood-stained face, rushed rapidly 
up the bill. 

Kate, still sobbing, wrung her hands. We are undone, we 
are undone!” she moaned. “ What will Squire Orchardson say 
when he hears that you struck his son ?” 

But this time her brother did not heed her, or scarcely seemed 
to hear. No furious flame of anger now burned in his heart, 
but on his face there was a fixed look of horrible pity and pain. 
In weary sorrow he raised his eyes to the still smiling sky. 

“Forgive!” he murmured; “nay, father, I can never forgive 
noio. Since there is a God above us, why doth He let such 
things be ?” 

He raised the poor stiffening body of his dog, and carried it 
tenderly homeward in his arms, choking down his tears as he 
went. 

As he passed the house door his mother came out to question 
him, and he told her what had passed. She went very pale, but 
said little; she did not even chide her son for his violence. 

Christian laid the poor hound tenderly in the porch, and then 
all went into the house together. 

An hour later, there came a great rapping at the door. An- 
ticipating evil, they went and threw the door open, and thero 
stood Squire Orchardson, mounted on his black horse, and 
shaking his heavy whip at them all. He was livid with passion, 
and the moment he saw Christian, shrieked aloud: 

“ Where is he that struck my boy ? Where is the coward that 
smote a poor lame lad ? Come out, you dog! come out! that I 
may punish you as you deserve!” 

Christian was about to leap out and face the speaker, when 
his mother, grim as death, ordered him to keep back. Accus- 
tomed to obey her, he paused. 

“ My son did not strike your son,” answered the dame coldly; 
“ he fell, and so was hurt.” 

“ ’Tis a lie!” cried the squire. “ He struck him. My boy 
never lies, and he hath told me all.” 

“Your son is the liar, sir,” said Christian, “if he saith I 
struck him. I gave him a push in anger, and he fell upon a 
stone. But he poisoned my dog.” 

“ And if he did, what is the life of your wretched cur to a 
scratch upon my son ? Your dog poached upon our preserves, 
and had I seen it, I would have shot it with my own hand. My 
boy did well. Had he poisoned the whole of your wicked brood 
he would have done better still.” 

“ You are a brave man,” returned the widow, with a cold 
smile, “ to talk thus to a lonely woman. Had my man l)een liv- 
ing, he would have reckoned with the father as his son did 
reckon with the son.” 


GOD AND THE MAN. 


29 


Enough, woman!” cried the squire, madly. “ If there is law 
or justice in the land, you shall all moan for this. Beggars that 
you are! I will be even with you now. No more mercy — no, 
no! I’ll grind you down to dust!” 

Begone, sir! you darken our door.” 

And without another word, she closed the heavy door in his 
face. Listening within, they heard him muttering and cursing 
aloud, and striking on the door with his whip; then, with a 
loud threatening oath, he galloped away. 

They had not to wait long for the issue of that sad dispute. 
The very next day came tlie legal intimation that the mortgage 
money was to be realized to the last penny, and that, if they 
could not pay up both principal and interest, they must yield 
the well-loved land. Thus the thunderbolt fell, not quite 
unexpectedly, and they looked at one another with stupefied 
faces. 

Kate was the first to speak, and her words were characteristic. 

‘‘ Mother, mother! do not let us be undone. Let me go to Mr. 
Richard. Let me tell him that we beg his pardon, let me 
sue for pity. I know he will listen to me, if I plead humbly 
enough.” 

“Silence!” cried Christian. “How dare you think of it? 
Your father’s blood flows between you and ” 

He paused, for Kate was kneeling on the floor and sobbing, 
and the dame was standing over her like a ghost, pointing at 
her with a lean forefinger, and trembling as a leaf. 

“ Christian!” cried the girl. “Speak for me! Mother!” 

Christian put his hand upon his mother’s arm. Fora moment 
the dame did not speak, her lips moved, but she was too troubled 
to find words. It was terrible to see her white stony face, with 
its wrathful eyes. At last she gasped, pointing to the great 
Bible which stood open upon the sideboard. 

“ Give me the book!” 

Christian placed it upon the table near her. 

Stooping, she seized Kate’s cold hand and placed it among the 
leaves. Poor Kate shivered and moaned, and tried to draw her 
hand aw’ay, as if she feared the touch might do her harm. 

“ Now swear!” said the mother. 

Kate only sobbed aloud. 

“ Swear on the book that you will never again willingly ex- 
change words vith any of that name or that blood; swear that 
in sickness and in health, as long as life lasts, you will never 
take the hand of an Orchardson or knowingly worship under 
the same roof with any of that blood or name; swear that your 
prayers shall rise nightly against them, wherever you may be.” 

Kate seemed overcome with terror. 

“ I promise, mother — do not ask me to swear!” 

“ Swear on the book!” 

Thus urged, Kate Christianson took the oath. 

The dame turned suddenly to her son. 

“You shall swear, too!” she said sharply. 

The boy swore right eagerly. Then he stooped and caught his 
sister in his arms, just as she' was swooning away, 


80 


QOD AND THE MAN 


CHAPTER V. 

ENTER PRISCILLA. 

So it came to pass, through the issue of ill-blood between mere 
children, and between men and women who were as children in 
their foolish passions, that the breach between the two houses 
widened into a gulf as deep as hell. On the one side of this 
gulf of hate and darkness sat the Orchardsons, rich, prosperous, 
in the full sunshine of fat meadow and plenteous vineyard. On 
the other side crouched the Christiansons, a beggared family, 
bitter at heart, ever waiting for the evil hour which might bring 
vengeance. The mortgage was closed. The fat fen lauds 
passed into the hands of their hereditary foes; and all remain- 
ing to them now were the old house, fast falling into decay, and 
the barren hills and burrows of sea-lying sand. 

Well, there are compensations even in the deepest shadows 
of trouble. It was something at least to have the old house, and 
not to be turned out by the bailiffs, like conies by the ferret, 
into the open cold; something more, to possess tlie ancestral 
sandhills, barren and desolate as they were. At a pinch, they 
could at least exist, though no human soul but themselves 
knew how sore at times the pinch became. 

Fortunately, they had ntwer been free livere, and even in 
their days of prosperity had known little but homely fare. 
With keen thrift, now, they contrived to preserve a decent ap- 
pearance before the world. 

Widow and daughter kept their needles busy, and their spin- 
ning-wheels as well; so that Christian, who had a rough boy’s 
knack of destroying apparel, never went otherwise than neatly 
clad. And the boy, who was the idol of both, had his luxuries 
too. Many a time the two lonely women went without common 
necessaries themselves in order that the head and hope of the 
house might have gentlefolk’s fare. 

In this sad season of poverty and social disgrace, it is hard to 
say what would have become of young Christian Christianson 
if "he had not relieved his angry moods by that free physical ex- 
ercise of which he had ever been so fond. The women had their 
Bible, their constant means of communication with some strange 
far-off divine sympathy; his, on the contrary, was not a relig- 
ious nature, and in more respects than one he belied his name. 

For weeks and mouths the shame and outrage of that cruel 
legal revenge dw’elt within him, poisoning every thought and 
feeling, distorting every hope and dream. At first, but for the 
piteous pleading of his sister and the sad command of his 
mother, he would certainly have gone off and committed mur- 
der. For weeks afterward he was in the mood, had either 
father or son crossed his path, to have shot him dead, or to 
have si)rungupon him and tried to tear him limb from limb. 

Fortunately, his mad rage was suffered to consume itself, and 
to die away, without receiving auy fresh fuel from without. 

So the boy went and came, somewhat more dark and sullen 
tban before, but to all outw’ard seeming little changed, 


GOD AND THE MAN. 


31 


Years passed on, and the bitterness of seeing others in pos- 
session of the ancestral land, which stretched rich and plenteous 
before the very door, had begun to wear away. Poverty was 
so familiar that it no longer seemed very unfriendly or quite 
unkind. The widow had accepted her cross patiently, and by 
dint of strict parsimony bad saved a trifle. At all events, affairs 
could grow DO worse— unless the very roof fell in upon their 
heads, a not altogether unlikely contingency, taking into con- 
sideration the state of the farm repairs. 

It is to be feared that, in one particular respect. Christian had 
suffered severely. His education had been unduly neglected. 
It is doubtful, however, if much more attention would have 
been given to his training, even had the family not fallen on 
evil days. In those times, many a wealthy farmer was too il- 
literate even to write his own name, and book learning was gen- 
erally regarded as so much vanity, not to be indulged in by 
sensible folk whose lives were occupied in tilling the land and 
accumulating gold. 

What he lacked in knowledge, Christian Christianson gained 
in manly strength and beauty. At twenty yeai-s of age, he 
might have sat to a painter for a youthful Thor. 

His short, clustering ringlets, his firmly chiseled face with its 
grave blue eyes and splendid chin, his strong yet shapely neck, 
his perfectly molded arms and limbs were all in keeping. 
Though of great height, he had none of the unwieldiness of 
giants. His only defect was a peculiar stoop in the shoulders, 
a not unusual characteristic, I have noticed, of brooding and 
determined men. 

For the rest, his disposition, it is to be feared, was sullen and 
stern. He had strong and stirring passions, as we have seen, 
but they had been subdued to a gloomy sense of wrong. Brave, 
honest, incapable of meanness or treachery, he yet conveyed in 
his manner a certain feeling of dangerous repression. His bit- 
terness against the world had been fostered by constant loneli- 
ness; for the family had now few friends. 

It was his twentieth birthday, and the day, a clear June day 
of unusual brightness, broke with warmth and splendor over 
the sandhills and the sea. He had risen early and gone down to 
the sea for a swim. Emerging from the water, light and 
glistening as a naked god, and happy for the time in the glow- 
ing consciousness of life, he cast on his clothes, and turning in- 
land, he threw himself on one of the hot sandhills, to bask in 
the sun. 

All was perfectly still — the clear heaven, the calm throbbing 
ocean, the long flat sands still wet from the receding tide; not a 
sound broke the summer silence. All at once, however, the 
stillness was broken by the sound of a voice, singing. 

So suddenly did it rise, and so near at hand, that he was quite 
startled. Half rising, he listened. Yes, there could be no 
doubt whatever; some one was singing close by. 

A clear, silvery voice, like that of a woman. Stranger still, 
the words seemed merry and foreign, belonging to some lan- 
guage he did not understand. It seemed like witchcraft, and 


32 


GOD AND THE MAN, 


Christian, who was not without his superstitions, felt a trembling 
thrill run through his frame. This lasted only for a minute; 
then rising to his feet, he moved over the sandhills in the direc- 
tion of the voice. 

A few quick strides brought him within sight of the singer. 

Down beneath him, in a green space between the sandhills, 
sprinkled with cannagrass and yellow flowers, a young girl was 
walking, singing clearly to herself as she moved and sang in the 
summer sunshine. 

She was dressed in black, without one trace of any ornament. 
Even her bonnet was black, which she had taken off and was 
swinging by the strings. The contrast between her gloomy 
dress and her bright face set in golden hair, was sufficiently 
startling; but equally as great was the contrast between that 
dress and the clear gay trill of her girlish voice. 

Christian stood looking on in wonder. He was used to coun- 
try maidens, but this apparition seemed something quite differ- 
ent. She wore dainty boots and gauntlet gloves, and her attire, 
though so somber in color, was of fine material and elegant in 
form. 

As he gazed she ceased to sing, and, stooping down, gathered 
one or two of the yellow flowers; these she fastened to her bosom, 
and as she did so, gave a silvery laugh. 

Christian was fascinated. He had never seen a human being 
so completely at ease with herself and with the world. In her 
complete contentedness with her own company .and thoughts, 
she realized Wordsworth’s lines; 

“ Solitude to her 
Is sweet society, who fills the air 
With gladness and involuntary song.” 

He looked on in wonder. 

Presently the girl resumed her walk, and her voice rose again. 
This time the tune was even gayer, though the w’ords were still 
foreign and strange. Then, finishing a verse, she laughed again, 
out of sheer delight of heart. 

It seemed hardly fair and honest to -play the spy in that 
fashion, without letting the young lady know that she was not 
unobserved; so Christian, though he felt bashful for the first 
time in his life, gave a cough to attract her attention. 

She looked up at once, and to his astonishment, smiled and 
beckoned. 

Scarcely knowing what he did, he walked down toward her, 
and soon encountered the full fire of a pair of blue eyes directed 
right into his own. 

Then came a point blank question. 

“ How long have you been listening, if you please ?” 

Christian stammered, blushed, and looked confused. Before 
he could find an answer, came another question. 

“ Do you belong to this place ?” 

“ Yes,” he said. 

“ Then perhaps you can help me. I have lost my way.” 

“Lost your way,” said the young man, looking puzzled. 

“ if 


OOD AND THE MAN 33 

He was about to ask the question which she at once, without 
hearing him, answered offhand. 

“I was wandering along the seashore, and I turned off 
among the sandhills; and each is so like the other that I got 
lost among them.” 

“ You did not seem to mind.” 

“ Nay, but I was singing to keep my courage up. You heard 
me?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Did you think I was singing a hymn ?” 

Christian stared and involuntarily shook his head. 

“ Since it was in French, perchance you could not tell,” she 
added, smiling, seeing the shadow of a smile on Christian’s 
face. “ Well, perchance it was not a hymn at all, but a chanson 
I learned over in France.” 

There was something so frank and artless in the girl’s man- 
ner, something so utterly different from the self-conscious 
timidity and blushing stupidity of country maidens, that Chris- 
tian was perfectly bewildered. To be addressed so fearlessly 
and carelessly by a complete stranger was in itself a novelty. 
He felt for the time like an awkward lout, tackled for the first 
time by a fairy of the wood or sea. 

“ Do" you — live here ? Nay, in the neighborhood, I mean ?” 

“ I am staying with my father, over in Brightlinghead.” 

Brightlinghead was a "small fishing village, situated some 
miles away, upon the seashore. “ And you?” she asked. 

“ I live at the -Fen Farm,, in yonder.” 

“What is your name?” 

“Christian Christianson.” 

She looked at him from top to toe, with the frank yet modest 
look that was peculiar to her. 

“You must be a good Christian, in sooth, if you are like your 
name.” 

Christian colored up, and said, awkwardly: 

“ What is your father ? Not of these parts ?” 

“ Nay,” she replied, “ he is a stranger. He hath come down 
hither to preach God’s Word.” 

Christian wondered again; to his simple sense, there seemed 
something most inconsistent between gospel preaching and a 
vision so bright and sweet. 

“ Your father is a parson, then ?” 

The girl shook her bead. 

“ Nay, he is not in holy orders, though he hath had a call. 
Since he heard good Mr. Wesley preach, the Spirit hath moved 
him to discourse for poor folks’ conversion.’* 

Another change. She spoke now with a quite different in- 
tonation, recalling the prim phrases of tlie dissenting chapel. 
Her eyelids drooped demurely, and the edges of her pretty 
mouth were just turned down — like a rose-leaf folding. 

W^hile speaking, they had moved on quietly toward an open- 
ing in the sandhills, and they were now within view of the open 
sea sands, 


34 


GOB AND THE MAN. 


“ I shall know my way now,” she said, quietly. '‘ Good-day, 
friend.” 

But Christian, with the fascinatiou of her presence strong 
upon him, was not to be parted with so easily. He kept by her 
side, saying: 

“ Tf you will suffer me, I can show you a short cut back to 
your village. ’Tif but going round yonder by the skirts of the 
water-meadow, instead of winding along the curves of the sea.” 

“ Point me the path, prithee, and I will take it.” 

“ Nay, I will go with you a piece of the way.” 

The girl smiled, and looked at him again with her bright ej^es. 

A good Christian, as I said! Come, then, good Christian!” 

And she tripped along with happy unconcern, he following. 

As they went, he had a better opportunity of observing her, 
and the more he looked, the more his wonder grew. She could 
not have been more than seventeen or eighteen, and yet her 
manner had the perfect repose of a mature woman. Her com- 
plexion was very pale, yet clear, her ej^es matchlessly bright, 
her evebrovvs dark, yet her hair the lightest of gold. He noted, 
too, that she had’tiny hands and feet. Her figure was slight, 
yet very graceful, and she walked with a light elastic tread. 

By this time she had put on her best bonnet, a structure of 
the then fasldonable coal-scuttle shape, yet wondrously becom- 
ing to a plump and pretty face. 

Christian had seen few woman save his own mother and sis- 
ter, and such rustic beauties as he knew were of the red- 
cheeked. not to say red-elbowed, order. Of ladies proper he 
knew little or nothing. There was the vicar’s wife, who might 
have once b^en comely, but was now sedately grim: and her 
daughters, young ladies with shrill voices and high waists. 
Lawyer Jeffries’ daughter was a bold -looking, handsome girl, 
and so were many of the farmers’ daughters round about. But 
the one invariable characteristic of all these persons, plain or 
fair, was that they had two distinct manners — the “ stand off ” 
manner and the “ come on ” manner — whenever they were in 
company with a person of the other sex. In one word, they 
w^ere either flirts or prudes: in either case ridiculously conscious 
of the sexual distinction. 

Now, the curious charm about this pretty stranger was her 
complete unconsciousness of anything of the sort. 

She spoke to Christian as frankly as one young man might 
talk to another, with perfect modesty, perfect unconsciousness, 
and perfect ease. She took him at* once, as it w^ere, into her 
confidence, as a human being, and yet, all the time, she pre- 
served a certain pretty virginal dignity, w’hich warned him 
that it would be a dangerous thing to encroach. 

So he followed her as a dog might follow its mistress, happy, 
yet conscious of the command of a superior spirit. 

They passed along the sea sliore, along the border of the 
water-meadow, and then, crossing a field, found themselves in 
a dusty country road deeply furrowed with old cart-ruts, yet 
thickly sprinkled with growing grass. The hedges were high, 
and the grass all under them was thickly sprinkled with speed- 


GOD AND THE MAN. 


35 


wells and violets. The thick hedge shut out the distant sea, 
and it seemed like walking in a wood. 

Presently the maiden paused. 

“ You must not come any further — I am quite right now.” 

“’Tisbut a short step further,” returned Christian, “and I 
will not leave you yet. Perchance before I go,” he said, “ you 
will tell me your name.” 

“ Did 1 not tell you, friend ? It is Priscilla.” 

“ Mistress Priscilla ” 

“Priscilla Sefton, at your service,” she cried, smiling and 
dropping a little courtesy; “and now, since you have proved 
yourself good Samaritan' as well as good Christian, I prithee 
come no further.” 

The young man tingled and blushed each time she played 
upon his name. 

“ I have naught to occupy me, and I am going your way,” he 
replied. 

“ Naught to occupy you ?” she cried, with a smile. “Know 
you not the rhyme, ‘Satan doth find some mischief still, for 
idle hands to do ’ ? But there, since you are so willing, come 
along.” 

So they went side by side. Presently they came to a little 
bridge, arched like a maiden’s foot, spanning a bright brook, 
that went leaping down to the sea. 

Priscilla paused and leaned over, looking at the sparkling 
water. Just below the bridge, it made a pool, fringed deep with 
sedge and reeds, and in among the reeds white water-lilies were 
just unfolding, each with a pinch of gold in its heart, and on 
the banks hung wild rose-bushes, with pink flowers fluttering 
open to see their images in the water beneath. Just then, a 
bright little bird, in gorgeous summer clothing of red, blue, and 
gold, darted through the arch of the bridge, paused as if to 
alight on an outreaching twig of the rose-bushes, and then, see- 
ing Priscilla, flew on rapidly wdth a sharp cry, keeping very 
close to the water, and following with rapid precision every 
winding of the brook. 

“ What a beautiful bird!” cried the girl. “ Do you know its 
name?” 

“’Tis a kingfisher.” 

“ And look — there is anotherl” 

On a stone in the middle of the pool was a little bird wfith a 
snow-white breast, dip-dipping in rapid motion as it stood, with 
its head cocked on one side, and its sharp eye so intent on the 
water that it did not see the human forms above it. 

As Priscilla spoke, it quietly 'slipped into the water and disap- 
peared from sight. 

“ That is a water-ouzel,” exclaimed Christian. 

The little bird re-emerged, stood on the stone again dip-dipping, 
and then, startled, flew off after the kingfisher, down the 
stream. 

“How nice to be a country lad,” said Priscilla, “and to know 
all the pretty birds and flowers. It is almost my first visit to 
the green fields, I have lived all my life in smoky towns,” 


36 


GOD AND THE MAN. 


“London born, perchance?” queried Christian. 

“Yes; but since I was twelve years old, I have dwelt with 
my good Aunt Dorcas in Liege. It was pleasant there, but I 
love our England best.” 


CHAPTER VI. 

FATHER AND DAUGHTER. 

As they lingered there, leaning over the keystone of the little 
bridge, they formed a fine contrast; he, so mightily and grandly 
made, with his sunburnt cheeks and air of Arcadian simplicity; 
she, so delicate and fairy-like, in her tight-fitting dress of black, 
with her little gloved hands and fairy feet. Down below them 
in the shadows the gnats swarmed, and the minnows sparkled, 
and the trout leaped; birds were singing on every side; in 
heaven, there was full sunshine; on earth, perfect fruition of 
the summer tide. Delicious was the birds’ song, delicious the 
cool trickling sound of the running brook. Like a child de- 
lighted, Priscilla listened, and her pure face reflected the joy of 
all the happy things around her. 

Young Christian looked and gladdened. He did not know it 
yet, for he was a boy, but the divine hour had come; the hour 
which does not come to all (for to some men capable of infinite 
affection it never comes at all), but which, when it does come, 
means transfiguration. This delicate being, bringing with her 
the perfume and the beauty of some unknown world, this 
dainty stranger, who talked with him already as frankly as if 
he were an old friend, held him spell-bound. Yet, strange to 
say, he was not tongue-tied; to his own astonishment, he found 
himself catching the contagion of her frankness, and talking 
with a freedom unusual to him. 

“This is Thornley Beck,” he said; “down yonder, a mile 
away, it runneth into the sea. I have seen the white trout try- 
ing to climb it in autumn floods, but they cannot pass the 
bridge, and there are no pools, so they cannot stay. Down close 
to the sands, there be silver mullet in hundreds, and the fisher- 
men take them in the net.” 

Christian spoke as a country lad, loving sport better than 
sentiment. To him, the fishing possibilities of the beach were 
of infinitely more consequence than its natural beauties, for the 
artistic sense had never been born within him. 

“ Had I my will,’’ said Priscilla, thoughtfully, “ none should 
snare the pretty fish. ’Tis a sin to slay what the good God 
made.” 

The lad stared, for such talk was to him incomprehensible. 

“ God made the fish for food,” he answered, “ and the beasts, 
and the birds of the air. Our Lord Himself did go a-fishing 
once.” 

“Nay, ’twas a miracle,” answered the maiden, “and these 
things are hard to understand. God meant it for a merry 
world, but our sin hath transformed it. Had you seen what I 
have seen, in the wicked city, you would be sad,” 

What have you seen ?” 


OOD AND THE MAN. 


3^ 


“ Human folk dwelling in places dark and foul; men and 
women pining away for lack of the sweet air: little babes starv- 
ing at the breast; and I have heard cursing and gnashing of 
teeth, such as the good pilgrim your namesake heard when he 
lay him down in a den.” 

“What took you into such evil places ?” asked Christian in 
surprise. 

“I went with my father, to save souls.” 

“ How ?” 

“ By reading to them out of the Blessed Book, and by telling 
them of Him that loved them and laid down His life for fheir 
Bakes. I have stood by and sung sweet hymns to them, while 
they smiled and died.” 

The lad’s wonder deepened. The girl’s words were so sad and 
terrible, and yet her face remained so bright and simple. Here 
and there in her intonation he seemed to catch the twang of the 
preacher, but the manner was so different, so calm and inno- 
cently assured. 

A sudden question occurred to him, and he uttered it at 
once. 

“ You wear black — you are in mourning perchance?” 

She shook her head. 

“ My mother died long ago, when I was a babe; but my 
father doth not think light colors seemly, nor do any of our 
folk.” 

“ Your folk ?” 

“We are of good Master Wesley’s flock, and he himself hath 
sent my father hither.” 

Now Christian had heard of the great preacher, as of one 
malignant in all respects, disaffected to church and state and 
king; and he had heard of his people, as of people to be avoided 
and distrusted by all good subjects. Nay, in his own district 
there were sprinkled a few infected individuals, who were at 
war with the parson and exiled from society in general. Not- 
ably, there was one Elijah Marvel, a shoemaker of grim and 
forbidding aspect, who would bandy words with the vicar him- 
self, and had in consequence lost all custom, fallen on evil days, 
and alas! taken to strong ale — fortified by which he became 
even more malignant than before. His mother, he knew, often 
spoke of Mr. Wesley with a certain respect, but she had never 
openly fallen away from the church, and had sent her children 
to church and Sunday-school, and had a stately welcome 
for the pastor of the parish whenever he paid her an official 
visit. Altogether, Christian shared to the full the popular prej- 
udice against dissenters of all kinds; for he had not learned to 
think for himself on religious subjects, and took his religion 
as it came to him, with the other traditions of his race and 
blood. 

Priscilla noticed his astonishment, and looked at him with 
grave thoughtfulness. 

“You are not of my father’s persuasion ?” 

“Nay,” cried Christian quickly, “ I am for the king,” 

Priscilla’s face blossomed into an amused smile. 


38 


GOD AND THE MAN 


“ And so are we all!” 

“ Nay, I thought ” 

“ Well, good Christian?” 

“—That Master Wesley was a Pretender’s man, and an enemy 
to all good subjects.” 

“ Master Wesley is for the Lord Jesus; the King of kings,” 
she replied simply, “ and I fear you have heard him belied like 
his Master before him. I would you could hear him preach: he 
is so terrible, yet he can be so gentle when he lists. His voice is 
as the sounding of trumpets, yet his smile is kindly as the sun- 
shine upon the sea. Though he cometh to call sinners to re- 
pentance, he is sorest of all upon himself.” 

So speaking, in her natural tones, as if she were uttering mere 
matter-of-fact, she walked on. The language of the conventicle 
had grown so familiar to her, that it came to her lips as natu- 
rally as girlish laughter. She seemed a strange contradiction; 
so bright and fearless, and yet so full of grave discourse; so 
sweet in her manner, yet in her matter so solemn and even sad; 
80 pious-minded, yet so happy. Now, Christian knew, even in 
his little experience, tliat the Methodist people inclined more to 
the dark than to the sunny view of human affairs. Cobbler 
Marvel had once roundly rated the vicar himself for cooking 
hot dinners on the Sabbath, and for overfinery of personal at- 
tire. His talk was much of Armageddon, and of brimstone, and 
of the pit. Moreover, once or twice Christian had got a peep at 
certain forbidden gatherings in the open air, where common 
men gathered together and spake as the spirit moved them; and 
he had thought their discourse the very reverse of cheerful, nay, 
gloomy and dull exceedingly. Such, in his simple eyes, were 
Methodists — fate-haunted and distracted men. Yet here was 
something so different, under the same name; a sunbeam of a 
maiden, happy in a sinful world. Her piety was like her black 
dress; it only showed her brightness to more advantage. He 
had read few books, but one of them was the “ Pilgrim’s Prog- 
ress;” and already he felt that Priscilla was like one of those 
shiningly- vestured beings, who talked to that other Christian 
and encouraged him upon his way. 

And now, leaving the brook behind them, they passed along 
the hot lane, and coming to the brow of a hill, saw again 
the sea glittering before them; and between them and the sea 
was the fishing- village of Bright! ingiiead, clustering with red- 
tiled houses and brown sails, and drying nets upon the sea- 
beach. 

Priscilla led the way, followed by her new acquaintance, and 
paused near a tiny cottage, with a narrow patch of front gar- 
den, upon the roadside. Inside the garden gate stood two men, 
seemingly in angry conversation. 

One was a short, squat, bullet-headed man in Wack, who wore 
a clerical hat and carried a cane, and who was obviously in 
holy orders. The other was a tall, thin man, with a counte- 
nance of ghastly pallor, and large blue eyes full of a somewliat 
wandering light. He did not seem more than fifty years of age, 
but his hair was as white as snow. 


QOD AND THE MAN. 


89 


Now mark me,” said the clergyman, shaking his cane. “ I 
will have no malignant and disaffected wanderers —whom no 
man knows, and who have no authority from God or man— med- 
dling with my people. ’Tis my care to look after the souls of 
this parish, and I want no meddlers. I warn you, therefore, to 
quit the place, or to let my people be.” 

The person whom he addressed answered him, with a curious 
far-off look in his eyes, 

“Nevertheless, I must do my Master’s bidding.” 

“ At your perill I have but to give the word, and they would 
duck you in the horse-pond, or stone you from the town.” 

“ For what ?” gently said the white-haired man. “For tell- 
ing simple folk the way to God’s mercy ? For warning them to 
save their souls alive, ere yet they fall to the place where the 
worm never dieth ?” 

The clergyman, a very hot-tempered little man, gave a grunt 
of complete disgust. 

“ I know the canting jargon, Master Methodist, but it won’t 
do down here. My people have been taught that the best way 
to save their souls is to do as I bid them, to work hard for daily 
bread, not to meddle with themes they cannot understand, and 
to honor the king and the clergy. There, go tol You have 
come to the wrong place, that is all, and the sooner you depart 
as you came the better we shall all be pleased.” 

With these words the indignant clergyman bustled through 
the garden gate, cast one sharp look at Priscilla, who was enter- 
ing in, and walked rapidly away. 

Approaching the white-haired man with an anxious look, the 
maiden touched him on the arm. Strange to say, he did not 
turn his eyes upon her, but still preserved in them the curious 
far-off look we have already described. 

“ Priscilla!” 

“Yes, father, it is I. What hath been the matter?” 

“The good pastor of the parish is angry that I have been 
preaching to his flock. I am grieved in sooth to have offended 
him, but I cannot serve two masters, and the good seed must be 
sown.” 

“Verily, father; but come, some one want9 to speak with 
you. To-day I have lost my way, and found a friend.” 

So saying, she took the old man’s hand and drew him toward 
the gate, where Christian still stood wondering. When they 
were quite close, she beckoned to him with a smile. 

“Will you speak to my father?” she said. “ Father, this is a 
young man who showed me the way home. His name is 
Christian Christianson.” 

“ A good name, at all events,” said the man, with the glint of 
a smile upon his wan cheeks, “ and I trust a fitting one. Young 
man, you are very welcome.” 

As he spoke he reached out a thin white hand, and Christian 
now perceived for the first time that he was blind — stricken by 
the species of disease of which Milton so pathetically yet 
patiently complained. The guttaserena, or “thick drop serene,” 
had invaded both orbs and left him in perpetual night. 


40 


GOD AND THE MAN. 


Christian shrunk back, but both father and daughter invited 
him to enter the cottage, and though bashfulness had now 
fallen upon him like an uncomfortable garment, curiosity made 
him assent. He followed the strange pair into a low-roofed 
parlor with black rafters and whitewashed wails. The only fur- 
niture was a plain deal table and some chairs. The floor was of 
deal, with no carpet. All would have seemed squalid indeed, 
but upon the table there was a plate of water, with fresh-culled 
pansies from the garden, close to an open Bible, very stained 
and old. 

The man sat down, and Priscilla motioned their guest to do 
likewise. 

“ Nay, I cannot linger,” he murmured, flushing, “I will de- 
part now, and ” 

“ Stay a short space,” said the blind man. “ Priscilla, get Mr. 
Christian some refreshment. Perchance, wdien he bath broken 
bread with us he will remain and offer up thanks with us to the 
Giver of all mercies.” 

A sweet look from the maiden’s eyes did more to persuade the 
lad to remain than any prospect of praise or thanksgiving. So 
he kept his seat, and tripping forth to the kitchen, she brought 
him plain brown bread and new milk, which he made pretense, 
for courtesy’s sake, to taste. 

Meantime, his eyes sought the face and figure of the blind 
man; and he was surprised to find in one so afflicted so complete 
a calm. Looking closer, he noticed that though the man’s dress 
was plain, it was of excellent material, and he wore wondrously 
fine linen, that his hands were white and delicate, and had never 
been used in any manual labor. This puzzled him more, for 
all the Wesleyans wdjom he had seen, or of whom he had heard, 
were common handicraftsmen or laborers in the fields. There 
was, moreover, in the man’s manner a curious stateliness and 
grandeur. He spoke with an accent of extreme refinement, 
which even Christian, though country-born, could not fail to 
perceive. 

As they sat, there was a tap at the door, and a grim- looking 
man, clad in fisherman’s style, quietly slouched in. He was 
followed almost immediately by another younger man, then by 
an elderly woman leading a child, and lastly by a good-hu- 
mored-looking blacksmith, fresh from the forge, in his leather 
apron. Some of these people were evidently expected; for at 
the sound of their entrance the blind man rose to his feet and 
gave them welcome. 

“ Good even, master,” said the blacksmith cheerily. “ I hear 
thou’st had a visit from t’ parson. Well, never heed him for he 
be an old wife.” 

“ What is your name, friend ?” asked the blind man. 

“ Seth Smith, master,” was the reply. 

“ Have you come of your own will to join our circle in 
prayer ?” 

“ Ay, if you please, and I will tell you why. Because oarson 
he did dare me to come and pray wi’ Wesleyans. ‘ Mind thy own 


GOD AND THE MAN 


41 


fioul,’ said I, ‘ and I’ll mind mine,’ and off I came—for I’ll pray 
in what company I please.” 

“ Be seated, friend,” said the blind man, quietly. 

“ And I’ll tell thee more, master,” cried the smith, who was 
both garrulous and aggressive. “ They say thou’rt one o’ the 
right sort — a rich man who has divided all his riches among 
poor folk. Now, t’ parson he gives nought, but is a swaggerer 
in gentry’s company, and cares only for s’ tithes. So I be come 
to listen, and if I like thy ways I’ll come again; and if I like not 
thy ways, I’ll stay at home.” 

This at least was frank, and the stout smith took his seat like 
a man who did not mean to be imposed upon, but was deter- 
mined to criticise, boldly yet honestly, the proceedings which 
were to follow. 

Christian rose to depart, but at an eager sign from Priscilla, ^ 
he remained. Then he beheld, and indeed took a part in, the * 
simple ceremonies of his new acquaintances. 

The proceedings were opened with a short prayer by the blind 
man, whose face as he prayed shone with a soft beatified light. 
Tlien Priscilla, who was seated by his side, gave out the words 
of a simple hymn; and afterward, in a clear beautiful voice, led 
the singing. How sweet yet solemn seemed the tones! Could 
this be the same voice that he had heard but a little time be- 
fore, trilling out the gay cadence of that incomprehensible 
French song? Yes, it was the same, but the effect was so dif- 
ferent, so holy and so grave. He raised his eyes and peeped at 
her face. A deep shadow lay upon it, and though the eyes were 
still clear, they seemed full of the sadness of recent tears. 

Then the blind man began a short discourse, taking for his 
text the terrible words, “I am he that liveth, and was dead; 
and, behold, I am alive for evermore, Amen; and have the keys 
of hell and death.” Commencing in a low and somewhat feeble 
voice, the blind man spoke of Christ’s life on earth, its pains and 
tribulations, its temptations — which come likewise to every 
man; then of His terrible death, rendered necessary by the in- 
iquities of the worhl He came to save. A deep awe fell upon 
those who listened; with dark imagination, the speaker reprO' 
duced for them the picture of that night of Calvary, which was 
only a colossal likeness, he said, of the crisis which must occur 
in miniature to every soul before it can be saved. Raising his 
voice, he passed on to speak of the ever-living God, to whom the 
keys of hell and of death belong. His hearers trembled, for it 
seemed as if the very spirit of earthquake shook beneath them. 
The countrywoman moaned and clutched her child; and on the 
smith’s hard-hammered face the perspiration stood in great 
beads, while his breath came and went like the sound of the 
forge bellows. 

Christian, not unmoved himself, looked again at Priscilla. 
She seemed listening, but none of the trouble seemed to touch 
her. To what can we compare her ? To a sunbeam on a grave- 
yard; to a white dove floating over stormy waters. Her eye 
was fixed on vacancy, and her face was quite briglit. Perhaps 
after all, her thoughts were far away. 


42 


GOD AND THE MAN, 


Suddenly the smith gave a great groan, and threw up liig 
hands, crying, “Lord, what a miserable sinner I be! Lord, 
Lord, have mercy upon me!” and the others fervently cried, 
“Amen!” At this moment Christian became conscious of an 
ugly face, surmounted with a head of shock hair, gazing in 
through tlie latticed window. 

“ Yaw! Methody! Methody! shrieked a voice; and immediately 
came a loud howling and hooting from many voices around. 
But the blind man made no sign, and continued his discourse as 
if he heard nothing. Then some one outside mimicked the 
liowling of a dog, and there was loud applause. 

Ceasing, solemnly, the blind man made a sign to Priscilla, 
and again she gave forth the words of a simple hymn, and her- 
self led the singing as before. At the sound of the music, the 
noise without increased tenfold — howls and catcalls and savage 
laughter arose — and finally a heavy stone, hurled by some cow- 
ardly hand, ^struck the window^ and broke several of the dia- 
mond-shaped panes. 

Notwithstanding this interruption, no one stirred; it seemed 
as if all were prepared for such interference. Priscilla finished 
the hymn with perfect calm and gravity, and after another short 
prayer, the service concluded. 

The smith strode over to the blind man, and reached out his 
hand. 

“ Give me thy hand, master! Tliee hast made me see wdiat a 
poor lost wretch I be! I like thee, and I’ll come again! and if 
any man molest thee. I’ll take thy part!” 

Then he shook hands with Priscilla, and patted her kindly on 
the head, for he had a daughter of his own, he said. 

Christian followed suit, and said good-bye to father and 
daughter. The latter seemed almost to have forgotten his pres- 
ence, for now the service was done, she was talking anxiously 
to her father; but she gave him her hand civilly, and he thrilled 
at the touch. 

Passing out to the road, he found a gathering of some twelve 
or fifteen men and boys, blocking up the vvay, some scowling, 
some grinning. The smith went first, with little ceremony, and 
they cleared the way for him quickly enough; but at the sight 
of Christian, they murmured loudly." 

“Yaw! Methody!” cried the same voice he had heard before. 

Christian smiled, rather amused than otherwise. This they 
took as a sign that they might encroach, and gathered round 
him; but a closer look at his square jaw and powerful frame 
kept them from laying hands upon him. 

He walked through them, and away from them. There was 
a wild yell, but he did not turn. 

Suddenly a stone whizzed passed his ear, and another fell at 
his feet. He turned quickly, and saw, in advance of the rest, 
the thrower— a great hulking fellow of four or five-and-twenty, 
hostler at one of the inns. 

Christian strode back, and before the other could stir they 
were face to face. 

Did you throw that stone?” 


GOD AND THE MAN, 48 

The fellow grinned savagelj^ and made no reply; but the oth- 
ers hooted. 

“Answer me,” cried Christian, “or I’ll wring your uglv 
neck !” 

“ Best tryl” snarled the other; then he uttered a terrified yell, 
for Christian had him by the throat. There as a quick strug- 
gle, a cry of voices, and in another minute the hostler lay like 
a log on the road, wuth bruised body and bleeding nose. Chris- 
tian stood panting, and faced the shrieking group. 

At this moment the group parted, and there appeared the 
same clergyman whom Christian had seen before in conversa- 
tion with the blind man. 

“ What’s this? what’s this? How dare you strike one of my 
people ?” 

“ He stoned me first,” answered Christian, “ and he hath only 
got what he deserves.” 

“Who are you, boy? What’s your name ?” demanded the 
clergyman, sharply. 

“My name is Christian Christianson, and I dwell away yon- 
der, at the Fen Farm.” 

“ I have heard of you; and to no good, I promise you. Squire 
Orchardson of the Willows knoweth you and vours only too 
well.” 

“As the thief knoweth those he hath robbed!” retorted 
Christian, turning fiercely on his heel. 

As he did so. he saw, standing at the cottage door, the figure 
of Priscilla Sefton. She was looking at him, with a face full of 
admiring sympathy and terror. He smiled and waved his hand 
to her; then he walked aw^ay along the road, with all bis young 
spirit troubled, his body flushed with victory, and his heart 
trembling (though he scarcely knew it) with the new-born flame 
of love. 


CHAPTER VII. 

A DISAFFECTED SPIRIT. 

A FEW days after the first meeting of Christian Christianson 
and Priscilla Sefton, Cobbler Marvel stood leaning over his gar- 
den gate, and looking moodily at vacancy. His hymn-book 
•was in his hand, his red cotton nightcap was on his head, and 
he was in his shirt-sleeves. Nevertheless, the church bells were 
ringing, and it was Sunday. Cobbler Marvel’s only recognition 
of the day was significant, though peculiarly simple; he had 
washed his face. 

He w’as a gaunt, grim -looking man of about sixty, v ith gray 
hair and beard, a copper-colored nose, and a weather-beaten 
complexion. His long legs were cased in rusty brown small- 
clothes and torn stockings; his shirt was of red wool; his waist- 
coat, wdiich he wore unbuttoned, for coolness, of brown cloth. 
His nightcap was cocked somewhat fiercely over the only eye he 
had— the right one— and lie had altogether the appearance of a 
person who would stand no nonsense. 

It was a golden summer morning, and the sound of the bells 


44 


GOD AND THE MAN, 


fell sweetly on the Sabbath air, but Cobbler Marvel was the very 
reverse of amiable. 

“You may ring, and you may ring,” he muttered to himself, 
as he listened; “ but I’ve heerd as fine music as that played on 
Satan’s fiddle; and parson may pray and preach sarmon, but I’d 
as lief hear the howling of the Beast. And he’ll gang home 
to’s roast and boiled and fine company, and drink his port 
wine wi’ Old Nick at his elbow, and a wail of w^eeping and 
gnashing of teeth all round. Well, the Lord’s above, and hell’s 
below, and 

“ ‘ Adam’s fall 
Doth doom us all 
* Until the Judgment Day.’ ” 

It was a gloomy view of the world to take for one who, de- 
spite his appearance, was a not entirely unprosperous person- 
For Cobbler Marvel stood in his own garden, or orchard, a fuU 
acre in size; in one corner of it there were bee- hives, with gold- 
tinted swarms hovering near them, and amhl the trees stood 
the little red-brick cottage — small, but weather-worthy, with a 
bench of stone in front for the cobbler to cobble upon in fine 
weather, when he was tired of gardening and keeping his bees 
in order. But Cobbler Marvel was misanthropical by nature, 
and what was worse, a woman hater to boot, although a mar- 
ried man. As the country people passed, dressed gayly in their 
Sabbath best, he paused, frowning and snifiSug, more especially 
at the women. He had not forgiven the fair sex its original 
participation in the collapse of human nature. 

The church bells ceased, the country people disappeared, and 
Cobbler Marvel was still scowling at the country, when a voice 
startled him. He lifted his eyes, and encountered the vision of 
a fresh young face, gazing at him with frank and peaceful eyes. 

“ Good-morrow, friend,” said the voice, with a ring as sweet 
and clear as that of the bells. 

Toe cobbler screwed up his eye, looked the speaker from head 
to foot, and then, failing' to recognize in her any of his acquaint- 
ances or foes in the village, granted defiantly: 

“And why good-morrow, young mistress? why good-mor- 
row, eh ?” he demanded. 

“ Because it is fair weather, and the sun shines, and it is tlie 
Lord’s Day,” was the quiet reply. “ So it is good-morrow, in- 
deed.” 

This time Cobbler Marvel did not deign to respond, but 
haunching up his shoulders scowled again at vacancy, waiting 
to be left alone. 

But Priscilla— for it was no other than she — persisted. 

“ What may be your name, good man ?” 

“What be that to thee?” answered the misogynist, still avert- 
ing his one eye, muttering to himself, in the words of an obscure 
but pious poet, 

‘ “ And Eve she came a-questioning, 

And caused our father’s fall.’ ” 

Priscilla smiled, and shrugged her pretty shoulders, ‘4 trick 
she had learned across the Channel. 


GOD AND THE MAN. 45 

“ Be not afraid, good man,” she cried; “ I am only a simple 
maiden, and a stranger— and you need not fear me.”” 

“ I fear no man.” growled the cobbler; “ nor no woman.” 

“ Then you mislike them, which is next to fear, and that, 
good man, is wicked, and unseemly for a true Christian — which 
I hope you are.” 

Something in the calm, cool, matter-of-fact tone startled 
Marv^el, and he turned his head round to glare at Priscilla. 
Then he looked the pretty figure from head to foot again. He 
was not in the habit of being tackled so quietly. Most of the 
neighbors avoided him and feared his tongue, and even with 
his inveterate adversary the parson he was able to hold his 
own. 

“And who may you be that talks so pert? No good, may- 
hap! Get thee out o’ the way, I be thinking o’ solemn things.” 

“ I have heard Master Wesley say ” 

“ Eh ?” interposed the cobbler, with a start at the name. 

“ That none was so solemn as Tom Fool, and that Tom Fool, 
with himself for company, was as good as two fools in a show.” 

Elijah Marvel started and gasped. The words were not 
spoken rudely, hut with the quiet precision of one making a 
true but apposite quotation. 

Before he could speak again, the girl proceeded. 

“ 1 think I can tell your name, now, good man. It is Elijah 
Marvel.” 

“ How learned you that?” said the other sharply. 

“ I^was bidden to seek the surliest man in the village, and by 
that token, you are he.” 

The cobbler uttered an exclamation which, on less profane 
lips, would have sounded like an oath. The sweat stood on his 
forehead, and the light in his eye grew positively baleful. But 
something in the sweet superiority of the maiden awed even 
him. As he stood panting and hesitating, Priscilla came nearer, 

“What a pretty garden you have!” (A grunt from Marvel.) 
“And what fine trees, full of fair fruit.” (Another grunt.) 
“ And you keep bees to make you honey — T see the yellow hives, 
and I can hear the busy insects humming all about. (Another 
grunt.) “I must bring my father to hear your bees, good 
man, for he loves the sound; and, like good Master Wesley, 
holds the simple bees a pattern set by God for human folk.” 

Cobbler Marvel had started again at the mention of the 
preacher’s name. He took off his nightcap and mopped his 
brow. His manner momentarily grew move and more re- 
spectful. 

‘ ‘ And who may your father be, young mistress ?” he inquired, 
in a subdued voice. 

“ He is Master Sefton.” 

“ From London ?” 

“ Yes.” 

In a moment the man’s manner changed. His grim features 
broke into the semblance of a smile. 

“ Lord, Lord, what a goose I be! I might ha’ known you 
were from none o’ these parts, you do speak so bold. And you 


46 


GOD AND THE MAN, 


be Master Sefton’s daughter from London ? T heard you were 
coming to these parts, for to spread tne good tidinge, and save 
folks’ souls alive from flaming fire.” 

“ Yes; and he has come.” 

“ Praised be the Lord! There be plenty of brands here for to 
pluck from hell’s burning, for the parson, be be a pope’s man, 
and his flock be like the flock o’ swine that were drownded 
through entering of devils. Where be thy father staying?” 

“ Over at Brightlinghead,” answered Priscilla, “ but we have 
walked over to-day, and he is resting at tlie foot of the hill.” 

“ Nay, then. I’ll come to him at once,” cried the cobbler. 

Priscilla looked at him quietly, and smiled. 

“First get thy coat, good man; my father does not com- 
mend vanity of attire, but he loves neatness and seeralmess, 
most of all on the Lord’s Day.” 

Cobbler Marvel went very red, and, for the first time in his 
life, felt ashamed of his defiant deslLdbille. 

“I’ve heerd tell as Master Sefton is blind,” he muttered irri- 
tably, “ and if so be ” 

“ Nay, good man.” cried Priscilla. “ what the sun can see, God 
can see, and a good Christian should be seemly clad.” 

The cobbler grunted disapproval, and muttered something 
about the vanity of personal adornment, and the necessity of 
every man despising vanity for the sake of his precious soul. 
But the grace and ease of Priscilla had quite mastered him, and 
after a moment’s hesitation he stalked into his cottage, and in a 
few minutes re-emerged, looking, for him, exceedingly spick- 
and-span. Then Priscilla tripped down the road, and the cob- 
bler stalked after her; and on a stile leading into a green field 
just on the skirts of the village they found the blind gentleman 
sitting, murmuring quietly to himself, with the sunshine on his 
snow-white hair. 

The cobbler looked upon him with no little respect, and when 
introduced to him by name, saluted him with great reverence. 
For even over the agressive mind of Cobbler Marvel the serene 
self-possession and refinement of Sefton exercised an immedi- 
ately subduing influence. After a little conversation on gen- 
eral subjects, Sefton said; 

“ And where do our people meet to-day ?” 

“ In my poor cottage, master,” was the reply; “ and ’tis nigh 
upon the Hour. Will you join us, master? or if so be you be 
too weary. I’ll fetch them along, and we‘ll worship out in the 
open air.” 

The blind man rose, and smiled as he answered: 

“ I am never weary when about my Master’s work. Lead the 
way, and we will come to your house. Priscilla, let me lean 
upon your arm.” 

“Nay, master, lean on me,” cried the cobbler; “I be the 
stronger.” 

Sefton thanked him and took his arm, and they walked 
slowly up the hill. Priscilla followed quietly. As they went it 
seemed as if all the shadow went with tiiem — with the grim old 
tatterdemalion and the afflicted gentleman, while all the sun- 


GOD AND THE MAN 


4'7 


shine remained behind witli the girl. She moved on lightly, . 
with a full enjoyment of the fair prospect, the golden weather, 
the azure sky. Of these wonderful revelations of an Almighty 
Love the men saw nothing— the one because he was physically, 
the other because he was mentally blind; but the maiden, in 
her sweet unconsciousness and content, was at one with nature. 
Her somewhat gloomy creed, like her demure dress, could not 
touch the brilliancy and purity of her young life. Indeed, she 
scarcely realized its gloom, though, from early habit, she was 
80 familiar with its vocabulary. 

In a few minutes they were again close to the cobbler’s gar- 
den gate, which they entered, and passing through the rows of 
heavily laden trees, approached the cottage door. Here they 
encountered an interruption, which made the moody cobbler look 
exceedingly uncomfortable for the time being. On the thresh- 
old stood a middle-aged and rather good-looking woman, 
dressed in a Sunday bonnet and bright-colored gown, and gazing 
at the cobbler, and from the cobbler to his companions, with 
impatience and irritation depicted in every lineament of her 
face. 

This, if the sad truth must be admitted, was Marvel’s wife, the 
only person in the village who was in any sense a match for him. 
Much of his hatred for the female sex might be traced, possibly, 
to the discomforts and incompatibilities of his wedded lot. 
The woman was many years his junior, and a sturdy opponent 
of all innovations in church, state, or domestic institutions. 
She attended the parish church regularly, and in matters of doc- 
trine was in close league with the parson against her husband. 

On seeing the strangers, she drew back with a bound and dis- 
appeared into some mysterious part of the cottage. With a low 
groan, expressive of commiseration for her or his own forlorn 
condition, the cobbler led the way across the threshold. 

Entering the parlor, which was quite empty, the cobbler as- 
sisted Sefton to a chair, while Priscilla walked up to the win- 
dow, where sweet -smelling musk plants were flowering in great 
profusion, and fixed her large eyes longingly on the sunny gar- 
den. All was so dark and quiet, one could hear distinctly the 
buzzing of the flies amid the musk plants — the monotonous 
drone of the bees in the tea-tree outside. But presently a rap on 
the front door announced visitors; and Cobbler Marvel, trotting 
off, soon ushered the new-comers into the room. 

They consisted of three or four very weather-beaten figures 
in wide-awake hats and rough suits, half rustic, half nautical. 
They entered in single file, hat in hand, and looked around 
them with the vacant look peculiar to persons entering church 
or chapel. 

In a few minutes all the men were on their knees, and Cobbler 
Marvel delivered an extempore prayer of no little length and 
with one chief fault, that it touched rather on the gloom than 
the cheerfulness of the life of man, and dealt somewhat un- 
mercifully with sin and sinners. Then the men stood up, and 
one of them began a hymn, in which all the others gruffly joined. 

After this Mr. Sefton rose, and in a few touching words, con- 


48 


GOD AND THE MAN. 


trasting favorably in matter and manner with those of the local 
leader, touched on some points of his own simple spiritual ex- 
perience. After a few words of a similar kind from a country 
character with a veiy rubicund face and a very faint far-away 
voice, and another hymn, the proceedings terminated. 

No sooner had the company departe<l than the kitchen door 
opened violently, and Mrs. Marvel, still in her Sunday finery, 
sailed into the parlor. 

It don’t become thee, Elijah Marvel.” she cried, “ to turn 
my house into a meeting-house, and set all the neighbors 
scorning us, and ha’ parson preaching agin’ us out o’ pulpit, 
driving away thy custom and breaking thy dame’s heart! If 
thou must pray, pray like a decent man among decent folk, and 
live cleanly. They do say you be plotting wicked things agin’ 
church and king, and soon or late thou wilt come to be hung on 
gallows-tree.” 

“ Nay, dame,” interposed the blind man gently, “ you speak 
of things you do not understand. Thy good man is no plotter, 
nor are we who are to-day his guests. We are only grievous 
sinners like yourself, seeking to save our souls.” 

“And who may you be, kind sir?” asked the housewife, with 
some asperity, adding, as she turned to Priscilla, “ and you, 
young madam ?” 

“The gentleman is my father,” replied Priscilla; “ and we 
are strangers. But come, father, it is time to go.” 

Appeased and subdued by the appearance and manner or the 
speaker. Dame Marvel gave a courtesy, and became apologetical. 

“ Your pardon if I ha’ spoken sharp, young madam, but Cob- 
bler Marvel he would fret a saint. Since you be gentlefolk, as 
indeed w^e may plainly see, you are kindly welcome. Maybe 
you’ll rest a bit, and taste a glass of my cowslip wiue ?’’ 

“Nay, dame, we must depart,” said Mr. Sefton, “though I 
thank yon all the same.” 

Leaning on his daughter’s arm, he moved to the door, while 
the dame, with another great courtesy, made way for him to 
pass. Cobbler Marvel hobbled after them, with a fierce scowl 
at his wife, who answered him with a defiant toss of the head. 
So they crossed the garden, and after bidding the moody cobbler 
farewell, and bidding him join them at their gatherings in the 
neighboring village, passed quietly across the green fields to- 
ward Brightlinghead. 


CHAPTER Vm. 

CLOUDS IN THE SKY. 

Several weeks had passed away since Christian Christianson 
and Priscilla Sefton had met accidentally on the sands, and 
since that day the two had scarcely been alone in each other's 
company. True, they had met; for was not Christian now a 
constant attendant at the religious services held in the cottage 
at Brightlinghead ? Indeed, so absorbed had he become in re- 
ligious fervor that he completely forgot to watch how affaiirs 
were going on at home. It seemed to him now that he was 


GOD AND THE 31AN. 


49 


continually sitting in the little cottage listening to the beautiful 
voice of the girl as she sang the quaint new hymns, or watcl)ing 
her beautiful bowed head as she joined her father in prayer. 

Then when tlie service was over, he, long;ing yet dreading to 
stay, walked out with his brother worshipers and strode moody 
and dissatisfied toward his liome. 

But one night, w’hen he rose as usual to take his departure, 
Priscilla motioned to him to stay, and having bowed a sweet 
good-night to her father’s fellow-worshipers, passed with Chris- 
tian out into the garden. 

It was one of those calm, still summer nights, winch are ren- 
dered even more beautiful by their promise of a golden morrow. 
On emerging from the house, Priscilla looked round her with a 
sigh of pleasure; then she turned to Christian. He had been 
looking full at her; as soon as their eyes met his dropped, and 
he turned his head away. 

“ Nay, friend, you have no need to turn away,” said the girl, 
laying her slender hand upon his sleeve. “Do you know, good 
Christian, of what I was thinking when 1 looked at you to- 
night?” 

At these words Christian felt his whole frame tremble, and 
an unaccountable feeling of joy fill his heart, but he answered 
quietly enough, 

“ Nay, Mistress Priscilla.” 

“This— you will become the best Christian in Brightling- 
headl” 

The young man started, looked into the eyes that were gazing 
BO fearlessly at him, and answered confusedly enough, 

“ Nay, Mistress Priscilla.” 

“But I say^ yea, good Christian Christianson; for you are 
good, I aver, because, although you have youth and" manly 
strength, and plenty of carnal temptations, you withstand them 
all, and while improving yourself set a good example to 
others.” 

“Verily, Mistress Priscilla,” returned Christian aghast, “ how 
do you guess all this ?” 

“I do not guess it, I know it,” returned the girl, quietly; 
“ why else should you come so often to the cottage, to the old 
blind man and his daughter? Ah! do not think, because I have 
not spoken, 1 have not watched you w’ell. I have, and ap- 
proved you; therefore I have come out to-night to shake hands 
with you in a brave new light of hope.” 

So speaking, with more* than her usual quaintness of phraseol- 
ogy, she held out her small white hand; Christian took it. but he 
did not speak a word. Somehow the girl’s laudatory w ords did 
not bring with them that degree of pleasure which he felt they 
should have done. He knew that most of w’bat she had said 
w’as true; he knew that he had braved the elements and re- 
nounced many daily pleasures merely for the sake of attending 
the religious meetings at Brightlinghead; but he was not so 
Bure that the fervent preaching of the aged missionary had been 
such a loadstone as the face of his beautiful daughter. What 


60 


OOD AND THE MAN 


would these meetings have been to him without Priscilla? 
Alas! the world without the sun. 

For a time they stood at the gate in silence; again Priscilla 
was the first to speak. 

“Good night, Christian,” she said, quietly. “You have a 
mother, you say r” 

“ Yes, and a sister.” 

! “Happy mother, and happy sister!” returned the girl quietly. 
“ Well, I have a father for my share. I must not linger longer 
here, so again good-night!” 

This time she returned to the house, and Christian strode 
homeward. 

For full seven days from that night Christian Christianson 
*did rot attend the religious meetings at Brightlinghead. Not 
that he was over-busy at home, but an uncomfortable sense of 
shame made him shrink again from meeting Priscilla. Yet he 
longed to meet her, daily and hourly he thought of her; the 
whole air seemed to be ringing with the echo of her name. His 
disposition was undergoing a transformation w’hich he himself 
could hardly understand. Priscilla had come; and as a flower 
unfolds its petals before the sunshine, his whole nature was ex- 
panding under the mysterious light of a woman’s eyes. 

His temper grew^ fretful and strange, but every morning the 
world, in his eyes, grew brighter; it seemed to him that lie had 
never li\ed before that day when he met the sweet figure on 
the sands; the past with all its sorrow seemed to fade from his 
mind, like the blackest night before the brightening of dawn. 

And Priscilla? Was her day dawning— /ler night fading 
away ? He thought of her face when they had first met on the 
sands, thought of it as he had seen it night after night during 
the hours of prayer; thoughtof it as he liad seen it that night at 
the garden gate, smilingly upraised to his. And as he did so he 
dared to hope that this little pale, prim girl had come to be to 
him w’hat the sun is to the earth, the moon to the sea. 

“ Yes,” he thought, “ her rare sweet love would make amends 
for half a century of sorrow. Sure ’tis such good fortune as 
that which makes this life worth living. I will try to deserve 
all that she thinks of me; with the help of God I will live a 
brave life and become a Christian man!” 

During all this time, as we have said, he kept away from the 
cottage, because he felt that in going thither he was playing a 
double part. He longed to meet Priscilla again alone. At the 
end of the weary week he did so. 

He came upon her again walking on the sands by the sea; she 
was singing very cheerfully to herself, but as soon as she saw 
Christian she ceased, and hurried forward with outstretched 
hand. 

“ I am fortunate to-day,” she said, looking' steadily into the 
young man’s face. “I came to seek you, and I have found 
you!” 

“ You come to seek me!” was all that Christian could reply, 
for there was something in Priscilla’s blunt speech which com- 
pletely puzzled and confounded him, 


GOD AND THE MAN. 


61 


“Yes,” returned til e girl, quietly smiling, “I came to seek 
thee, friend Christian I You know the heathen story of Mo- 
hammed and ihe mountain?” she added, with a still brighter 
smile; “ well, my good Christian has of late become the moun- 
tain, and to-day I am Mohammed!” 

This time Christian did not reply; indeed he hardly seemed to 
hear. He was conscious of standing upon a sheet of golden 
sand, and knew that the glorious golden sun-rays were falling 
all around him, that the sea was murmuring musically in his 
ears, that a slender figure clad in black was standing before 
him. with a face like that of an angel turned smilingly to his. 

How long he stood thus he did not know; his slumbering 
senses were aroused by the sound of the voice which ever thrilled 
him to the soul. 

“What hath come to you, good friend? you are changing; 
tell me, then, what is the matter?” 

Here was a chance for Christian Christianson to speak. In a 
moment a burning desire possessed him to take the girl’s hand 
in his and say, “Yes, Priscilla, I am changed, for you have 
changed me. I love you — say that you love me too!” 

He turned toward her, he half stretched forth his hand, he 
looked down into her eyes, but before he could open his lips to 
speak, Priscilla had turned away. 

“ I did not come with the intention of idling away the day,” 
said Priscilla, quietlj’. “ My father is in ill cheer to-day, and 
would gladly see you. Will you come, good Christian ?” 

To all outward perception Priscilla’s manner was the same as 
it had ever been; nevertheless, there was something in the tone 
of her sweet voice which completely dispelled the young man’s 
dream, and brought him back to himself again. 

Once more, for the second time in his life, he was walking 
along the road toward Brightlinghead, Priscilla Sefton by his side 
— with the sunlight falling all around them and the sky smiling 
its brightest above. They walked along in silence, and Christian 
was again falling into that delicious trance which had mesmer- 
ized his sens<^s on the sands, when he was again aroused by the 
sound of his companion’s voice. 

“ You have lived here all your life, have you not?” it said. 

“ Yes, 1 and my folk for generations back. I was born at the 
Fen Farm, yonder, and ’tis there I hope to die!” 

“ In truth,” cried the girl, with a smile, and regaining some- 
thing of her former ease of manner; “ I trust there is yet time 
for you to find a place to die in! But since you have ^welt here 
so long, you know all the country-folk around, perchance ?” 

“Most all.” 

“And among them young Squire Orchardson, of the Wil- 
lows? A fair young man, of a goodly disposition!” 

The girl had spoken innocently enough, with no thought or 
wish to wound or anger her companion; yet the young man’s 
face turned from white to red in very rapid transitions, a dan- 
gerous light kindled in his eyes, his powerful hand clinched 
firmly as if for a blow. For a time he stood speechless; when 
be did speak, it was to answer her question by another. 


62 


QOD AND THE MAN. 


“What know ?/02t of young Squire Orcbardson, of the Wil- 
low? ?” 

Priscilla looked up quickly, the change in his voice was so 
marked that it startled her. And how his face had changed! 
The frank, open, manly look had gone; there was an ugly light 
in his eyes which slie had never seen before. 

“What know you of young Squire Orchardson?” he asked 
again, this time almost roughly. 

Priscilla grew reserved. 

“ In sooth, good friend,” said she, “ I know as little of Squire 
Orchardson as I know of you. Up till a few weeks ago you 
were both strangers to me; but he, like you, has been good 
Christian enough to come to Brightlinghead of an evening and 
join our circle in prayer.” 

He has come; and you — you have welcomed him ” 

“ In verity,” said Priscilla, coldly; “ when we open our doors 
to do the work of the Lord, vve make all welcome.” 

Precisely in the same way Priscilla had spoken to him before, 
and had made his heart leap up for joy. “Come, good Chris- 
tian,” she had said, “ when we open the doors in the name of 
the Lord, we make all welcome,” How blissful those words 
had sounded to him then! they seemed to say. You are welcome 
to come as often as you please, and gladden in the sunshine of 
my presence; but how different it all seemed now! With those 
self-same words she had given a welcome to his bitterest foe. 

The two walked on in silence till they came to the bridge 
which spanned the narrow part of Thornley Beck. Here Chris- 
tian paused, and held out his hand. 

“ Good-bye, Priscilla,” he said. 

The girl looked surprised. 

“Good-bye? and wherefore good-bye?” she said. “Did I not 
ask you to come to Brightlinghead ? and you said yes.” 

“ I am in no mood to meet Master Sefton to- night.” 

“ Then your mood has changed since we started from the 
sands.” 

“ It hath.” 

The young man turned away, leaned over the parapet of the 
bridge, and looked gloomily down into the water. The girl 
watched him for a moment; then she approached him quietly 
and laid her gentle hand upon his arm. 

“ Christian!” 

“Well?” 

“ WhatjGils you? Have I done aught that angers you ? if so, 
speak freely, friend.” 

Christian turned, took both her hands and looked into her 
eyes. Again here was his chance to utter everything! but the 
tongue clove to the roof of his mouth, and ert^ he could recover 
himself, the girl spoke again. 

“ Hath anything occurred between you and young Mr. Or- 
chardson ?” she said. 

A groan from Christian. The hands were dropped, and again 
he turned away. 

By this time the girl had grown quite interested; again she 


GOD AND THE MAN 53 

approached the young man and laid her hand gently upon his 
arm. 

“ What is it?” she said. 

“ Why do you ask?” he said. 

“ Because it may be in my power to help you — nay, do not 
shake your head; tell me your grievance, and the burden may 
be lightened for you to bear.” 

Thus urged. Christian told her all; of the many bitter wrongs 
endured by him and his, of his undying hatred, and long-cher- 
ished hope of revenge; and to all his passionate outburst the girl 
listened quietly with that calm, serene look in her eyes. 

“Now tell me,” he said, as she turned away, “have I not 
good cause to hate this man, and every one of his name?” 

She shook her head firmly. 

“ If you are a good Christian, you have no cause to hate him, 
or any man alive. Our Lord tells us to forgive our enemies, 
even seventy times seven.” 

“ Priscilla, it is not possible for a mere man to walk in the 
footsteps of our Lord.” 

“ If he doth not try to do so, he should not profess to be one 
of our Lord’s follo^^ers.” 

“ I have tried — God knows I have.” 

“ And because you have found difficulties, you have never 
hoped to surmount them.” 

He looked at her with a certain savage passion, and laughed. 

“What would you wish me to do? Go to young Orchardson, 
perchance, and stretch forth my hand r” 

He spoke bitterly, but Priscilla answered quietly and com- 
posedly enough: 

“ Ay, my good friend, that is just what I would have thee 
do.” 

“ Then I tell you I would sooner my hand should rot from mj- 
arm. than be clasped with his in loving kindness.” 

Priscilla turned quietly avx ay. 

“ In good sooth, I had thought better of you,” she said. 
“ Good-night.” 

And she walked away, leaving him on the bridge alone. He 
did not attempt to follow her, his heart was too bitter, and he 
stood leaning moodily on the bridge, watching the slim black 
figure as it faded slowly away. 

His hatred toward the Orchardsons was stronger at that mo- 
ment than it had ever been before. Priscilla had praised them; 
she had hinted that they might be right while he was wrong; 
and the thought of this turned the one drop of human kindness 
in his heart to gall. Were these people, who for generations 
had been like black shadows upon tlie lives of him and his, des- 
tined now to cast from his lips the only cup of happiness which 
he had dared to raise ? 

“ O God!” he cried, “ it cannot be. What have I got in all 
the world but Priscilla? What happiness did I ever know until 
she came ? Sooner than he should come between us, I would 
kill him with my own hand.” 


54 


GOD AND' THE MAN 


He remained for a time on the bridge, wrapped in his own 
gloomy thoughts; then he turned toward his home. 

It was growing late; daylight was fading fast. 

After awhile Christian left the high road .and took a shorter 
route across the fields. It was very quiet here; no one seemed 
abroad, and Christian walked silently along, still thinking of his 
interview with Priscilla. Presently he paused, gave one quick 
glance around; then stood as if listening; a man passed by on the 
other side of the hedge, and disappeared; then a woman came 
hurriedly from the same spot, paused within a few yards of 
where Christian stood, and on looking into his face, uttered a 
half terrified crv. 

‘‘ Kate!” 

“ Christian ?” 

Then the two paused, in embarrassed amazement. Christian’s 
face darkened terribly. He recalled the man whom he had seen 
moving stealthily from the spot whence his sister had issued. 
He turned upon her with a murderous look in his eyes. 

“ You have been talking with young Eichard Orchardson,” he 
said. 

Kate did not reply, but she turned away her head and burst 
into tears, while her brother, still smarting under the wounds 
infiicted by Priscilla, still mad with his own bitter wrongs, 
poured upon her head a torrent of passionate upbraidings. 

“ ’Tis the women, the cursed women, who bring bitterness to 
every house! What will thy mother say, I wonder, when she 
knows you have spoken with an Orchardson, and met him 
secretly in the Fen Fields at sunset ?” 

“Christian, for the love of God, do not tell my mother!” 

“ Not tell her ?” 

“She would hate me. She would never forgive me — she 
would turn me from her door!” 

“You knew all this before.” 

“ Oh, forgive me, brother, forgive me! I meant no harm. I 
cannot hate as you— all this bitter feud doth almost break my 
heart!” 

And Kate cried so sorely and pleaded so hard, that out of pity 
her brother at last granted her prayer. 

When they reached home Kate went immediately to her 
room. Having got ther<j she fell on her knees in passionate 
tears. 

“ If he knew! if he knew!” she cried; “ O Jesus, help me, I am 
a woeful woman!” 

For several days Christian scarcely stirred abroad, but at 
length, solitude becoming too much for him, he resolved to go to 
Brightlinghead and make his peace with Priscilla. This resolu- 
tion put him in a better frame of mind; when he entered the 
cottage garden it was with ’ the full determination to confess 
his love for her and ask for hers in return. 

The cottage door stood open, he tapped gently, and receiv- 
ing no answer walked in. Two people sat alone in the parlor, 
Priscilla Sefton and young Richard Orchardson of the Willows. 


GOD AND THE MAN, 


55 


CHAPTER IX. 

THE ENEMY IN THE PATH. 

Christian started back as if stung, and in a moment his face 
turned from crimson to deadly white. 

“ Come in, Christian,” cried Priscilla, quite unconcerned at 
his appearance, and not rising from her seat; while Richard 
Orchardson, now a pale, thoughtful-looking young man, plainly 
but richly dressed, looked quietly up with a supercilious smile 
that Christian knew so well and hated so much. 

They were seated close to each other in the recess of the old 
fashioned cottage window, which, although wide open, was 
completely smothered in creepers and red and white roses. The 
room was shadowy and cool, but the humming of bees came 
with a pleasant sense of sultriness from without. 

Christian’s head swam, and he turned away. Staggering out 
of the door he reached the garden, and was moving away, when 
he felt a touch upon his arm. 

“ What is the matter V asked Priscilla, who had risen and fol- 
lowed him. “ Why are you going away?” 

He looked at her as if stupefied, but made no reply. It 
seemed like witchcraft, and for the moment he resisted, with 
all the force of his soul, her tender spell upon him. Just 
then, to complete his confusion, the figure of Richard Orchard- 
son appeared on the threshold. Standing up, young Richard 
appeared to much less advantage than vvhen sitting down; 
for one leg was much shrunken from the old lameness, and 
by reason of the contraction in the limb the body was some- 
what bent. But no one, looking at the young man, could 
doubt his gentle breed. It appeared in the small wdiite hands 
and neatly-turned foot, no less than in the pallid, handsome 
face. 

Sick and shaking, Christian walked on to the gate. Priscilla 
followed. 

“Why are you angry, friend?” she demanded. 

“ 1 am not angry.” 

“ That is not true,” she returned simply. 

“ And if I am angry ?” 

“Then you are to blame,” she said. “ Wherein have I given 
you offense?” 

Trembling from bead to foot, and scarcely able to articulate 
from excitement, Christian pointed at young Richard, who still 
stood just out of hearing. The girl’s gentle forehead contracted, 
and she looked distressed. 

“ I remember now what you said,” she said; “and indeed Mr. 
Richard himself has told me something of the feud between 
your families. Yet he freely forgives you the wrong you once 
did him.” 

“The wrong I did him!” gasped Christian. 

“Yes. You struck him a cruel blow when you were boys. 
He was weak and you were strong, and you were to blame.” 

Christian grew livid. On this subject, of all others in the 


56 


GOD AND THE 3IA1S!. 


world, he could not speak with ordinary gentleness even to her; 
nay, he could not discuss it or entertain it at all, so terribly did 
it disturb his soul. The dark passion covered his face like a 
cloud, and shocked her. 

“Then alas! what he said was true,” she cried, looking at him 
with angry grief. “ I am sorry for it.” 

She turned with a sigh, but he touched her and detained her. 

“ What did he say ? What did he dare to say ?” 

“ That you were cruel and unbending — more like a wild beast 
than a Christian man.” 

Christian uttered a harsh laugh. In his present temper he 
was not displeased with his enemy’s estimate and description 
of him, for he felt like a wild beast, and he wished his enemy 
to believe that his hate was as unreasoning and complete. 

“For bis own part,” continued the maiden, “Master Richard 
is content to let bygones be bygones. He forgives the wrong 
you did him long ago, and is ready to take your hand. Come 
to him — let me be peacemaker !” 

As she spoke she placed her little hand lightly on his shoulder, 
and looked up into iiis face with a smile so sad, so winning, 
that it would have melted any heart save one where jealousy 
and hate were contending. Yes, jealousy; though he scarcely 
knew it. His cup of hate had been full before, but it lacked 
until that day the poisonous wormwood of_the most miserable 
of all the passions. Half unconsciously he glanced toward the 
cottage door. There his enemy still remained, with an expres- 
sion upon his face which seemed more like insolent contempt 
than Christian forgiveness. 

“ Come and take his hand,” cried Priscilla, imploringly. 

His only answer was a look of frightful agony. Without ut- 
tering another syllable, he flung himself through the gate and 
walked wildly and rapidly away. 

Priscilla stood gazing after him, lost in sorrowful thought. 
When his figure had quite disappeared in the direction of the 
sea, she heard a voice at her elbow. 

“ Did I not tell you so?” said young Richard, in his blandest 
tones. “ The young cub is like the old she- wolf; he would like 
to iiave his fangs in my throat.” 

She did not reply immediately; and he stood gazing at her in 
unmistakable admiration. Standing thus, his slight form would 
have offered a strange contrast to the yeoman dike proportions 
of his enemy. His face was very handsome and clear cut, 
though its expression was irritating and at times mystifying; 
his form and limbs, but for the deformity of one foot and the 
stoop occasioned by it, were elegant and shapely; while his 
whole manner bespoke the gentleman of luxury and education. 
He was clad in a rich dress of velvet, with front and cuffs of 
the finest cambric, and on his white fingers he wore rings. 

“ I asked him to shake hands with you,” said Priscilla, after 
a pause. “ I wished to make peace between you.” 

“ And he refused?” asked Richard, with an airy shrug of the 
shoulders. “ Did I not say that you would waste your time ?” 


GOD AND THE MAN, 57 

“ It is terrible to see such wicked hate between Christian folk. 
Ah I had you seen his face!” 

“ I know the Christianson expression,” returned Richard, con- 
temptuously; “ sometbin^ between the look of a trapped weasel 
and the glare of an otter at bay.” 

“ He hates you so much ! And you ?” 

“ And I despise him infinitely.” 

“ To despise is altnost as wicked as to hate,” replied Priscilla, 
looking steadfastly at Richard. 

“ How then shall I express it?” exclaimed the young man, with 
the ease peculiar to him. “ I am, I hope, a fair Christian— at 
least with your good counsel I am in a fair way of becoming 
one — and I have almost succeeded in forgetting that yonder 
clumsy fellow once struck me; that is to say, I have not /or- 
gotten, since my looking-glass reminds me every morning that 
he has marked me for life.” 

Here he pointed to his fair forehead, where indeed the trace 
of his early injury was still to be seen, in one faint but ineffacea- 
ble mark. “ But what is done is done, and, after all, we were 
boys. I therefore bear no malice, and would take the fellow’s 
hand, only Heaven keep me from being long in his company, for 
he is a clown. I shall never go out of my way to do him any 
harm; should he attempt to injure me, I shall crush him, if pos- 
sible, just as I would crush an adder that tried to sting me, or a 
venomous insect that settled on my hand. You look shocked, 
Miss Priscilla. Well, instruct me where I am wrong, and I will 
promise to obey your counsel.” 

“You are wrong to despise one of your fellow- creatures.” 

“ How can I help it?” said Richard, with a smile. “Frankly, 
though, such a fellow would be amusing if he were not so mo- 
notonously dull.” 

“ Why did he strike you ?” demanded Priscilla, quickly. “ You 
must have provoked him sorely.” 

Richard colored violently, and for the moment, under her clear 
gaze, lost his usual self-possession. 

“A boy’s quarrel, as I told you,” he answered; “ I forget 
how it began, but how it ended I know full well, for I was the 
wcjaker, and down T went. For the rest the feud between our 
houses is traditional; there never was a time when our folk were 
on speaking terms with these yeomen of the Fen. ’Tis all very 
tiresome and very stupid, I grant you, and for my own part I 
I can’t afford to have an enemy, since ’tis only a source of irrita- 
tion. Only in one event should I think it my duty to assert 
myself and become the aggressor.” 

“What event?” said Priscilla, startled by the peculiar em- 
phasis in the speaker's last words, no less than by the peculiar 
look of warmth that accompanied them. 

“ In the event of his crossing my purpose in one of those af- 
fairs which determine a man’s happiness on earth and per- 
chance his qualification for heaven.” 

His look was unmistakable, and she at once understood him; 
but without a blush, without the slightest sign of self-conscious- 
ness, she frankly met his eyes. This frankness and fearlessness 


58 


GOD AND THE MAN. 


embarrassed bim not a little. Had she coquetted or blushed, or 
drooped her eyes in bashful fear, then and there would his bold 
lips have made a confession of love; but Ricliard Orchardson, 
despite his slight physical deformity, had no little knowledge of 
the fair sex, and he knew that the time was not ripe. 

‘•But come,” he cried, “let us change the theme. When 
yonder fellow entered, you were speaking to me of your 
father’s plans for the future. Can you not persuade him to 
forsake this vagrant life— so unsuited to one of his gentle breed- 
ing?” 

“Nay, sir; nor would 1 attempt it.” 

“ Why not ?” 

“ Is it not a blessed thing to go about on the Lord’s work?” 

“ Doubtless; and your father, I grant you, is as noble as one 
of the apostles of old. But alas! he has fallen on adverse times. 
Every one who disregards the supreme authority of the church 
is belied by the parsons as either an infidel, or, what is worse, 
a political malignant; and for proselytes you have, in most vil- 
lages, only the same. Where you strive to do most good, you 
succeed often in only setting folk by the ears. Look not angry 
—have I not proved myself your friend ? But I cannot help 
bethinking me of a homely proverb of my father’s, ‘Would you 
lead a life of peace and heart’s content, keep friends with the 
parson of the parish!’” 

“ Alas! the parsons chide us sorely, wherever w e go.” 

“ Because you meddle with the w’ork they are paid to do. 
Tliey would fain drive their sheep to heaven through the church 
door, and when they find you urging them in another direction 
they are naturally angry. In sooth, most folk are so foolish 
and old-fashioned that they can be saved on no other conditions 
and in no newer way than were their fathers before them; and 
such are the folk in these villages. For my own part I should 
deem most of the louts scarce worth saving at all, w'ere I not 
instructed to the contrary by the creed you teach so well.” 

“There is no human being,” answered Priscilla quietly, “ but 
is worthy to be plucked from the burning. So my father saith.” 

“Even at the risk of burning one’s own members! Ah! but 
your father is superhumanly good, as I always tell you. Well, 
to return to w^hat I was saying. You cannot live this wander- 
ing life forever?” 

“ Forever?” 

“I mean that your martyrdom will end some day, and per- 
chance you w’ill — marry ?” 

He watched her closely, but her face did not change. She 
moved over to a rose-bush, plucked a rose, and divided it 
thoughtfully, petal by petal. Then she spoke, as if discussing a 
subject of the simplest interest. 

“ I do not think I shall marry. I shall remain with my father 
all my life.” 

“ But he is old, and— nay, do not think I speak out of little 
feeling— in the nature of things will pass away long before your- 
self. Then you will be alone.” 

She shook her head, and looked quietly upward. 


GOD AND THE MAN. 


59 


“ I shall never be alone,” she said. 

The young: man looked at her in deepening wonder and ad- 
miration. Though there was something in her perfect purity 
and simplicity of character far beyond his comprehension, he 
could at least feel the spell of her beauty and the charm of her 
heavenly disposition. At that moment he did not dare to speak 
of love; he was too certain that her feelings toward him, and 
possibly toward all other men, were perfectly passionless; but 
his eye burned and his face flushed, with a baser and less 
spiritual emotion. A physiognomist, observing him, would 
have traced in his fine face a tint of an underlying sensuality, 
which indeed was inseparable from his nature." 

“It is an ill world,” he persisted, “and you may one day 
feel its cruelty. Even in your father’s company you are fre- 
quently exposed to danger. Yesternight, had I not been of 
your company the folk here would have used you both 
roughly, and wherever you go you meet with enemies who are 
very pitiless. It pains me sorely to see one so fair amid such 
sorry scenes. You should be a lady, leading a lady’s life — not a 
homeless wanderer from place to place.” 

“ You would have me idle,” answered Priscilla, “ or playing 
pretty tunes ou the harpsichord, or doing foolish embroidery, 
or dancing in fine raiment. Such vanities are not for me, good 
friend; I am happier as I am.” 

So saying, she walked back to the cottage door, where, after 
a few minutes, Richard Orchardson bade her farewell. 

How the young man became so familiar a guest in the cot- 
tage is easily told. He had the keenest of senses for a pretty 
face, and one day, as he rode by, he had seen Priscilla standing 
at the gate, in all her youthful prettiness and seemliness. A 
few inquiries at the nearest house of entertainment informed 
him who she was; and soon, with characteristic assurance, he 
joined the little gatherings over which her father presided. All 
formalities being dispensed with by these simple people, he soon 
found himself on terms of easy intimacy; and under the pre- 
tense of being easily moved by a spirit of pious repentance, he 
had endless opportunities of communing with the object of his 
admiration. 

Quitting the cottage, he walked down to the village inn, 
where his horse (for owing to his infirmity he seldom walked 
far) awaited him, and he was soon upon the road toward the 
Willows. He did not ride straight homeward, however. Leav- 
ing the country road on which Christian and Priscilla had lin- 
gered that bright morning when they first met, he rode down 
to the sea-sands: and seeking the very edge of the water, where 
the sands are ever hardest and firmest, put spur. to his horse 
and galloped. After a good mile’s gallop, he drew rein, and 
walked his steed in deep thought. His pale cheek was flushed 
with exercise, and his eye burned brightly. 

At last he turned his horse’s head up toward the sandhills, 
taking much the same way that his father and he had taken 
many years ago, when they encountered young Christian among 
the knolls, He had left the sea-sands and was proceeding slowly 


60 


GOD AND THE MAN 


along the arid fields which stretched just above them, when he 
saw, almost blocking his path, the figure of Christian Chris- 
tianson. 

Christian had been seated in dark thought on a great stone 
when the approach of Richard disturbed him. He sprung up, 
and for the instant the other thought he contemplated personal 
mischief. So Richard went very pale and with a sharp pull at 
tlie rein drew his horse on one side, and passed. Christian 
glared at him, and their eyes met. The horseman nervously 
clutched his riding-whip, in expectation of an attack; for in- 
deed the face of Christian looked ominous, in its mad expression 
of frenzied dislike. But he was suffered to pass untouched, and 
had no sooner done so than he quickened his horse's pace into a 
trot. Not until he was several hundred yards away did be draw 
rein and look round. Christian stood on the same spot, almost 
in the same attitude, like a shape of stone. 

That day, perhaps for the first time, Christian Christianson 
knew his heart. He was realizing in its full intensity the hor- 
ror of that terrible line of the religious poet. Young; 

“ The jealous are the damned.” 

And by the measure of his black jealousy he w^as able to mete 
his lovk The shock of seeing Priscilla in the company of his 
hereditary enemy, of the being whose merest breath had the 
power to poison the sweet air and make life hideous and unbear- 
able, had revealed to him the full intensity of his personal pas- 
sion. He felt now that to see her talking confidentially with 
any other youthful man would cause a sickening sense of envy 
and dislike; but to have seen her so close with what he most 
abhorred, was stupefying and overwhelming. 

He had rushed down to the sea-sands, and had his dark hour 
alone. He had spoken out his mad thought to the sea, as so 
many a poor soul has done, in default of a better listener. He 
had raged and stormed, with no living thing to heed him, and 
still his spirit was overburdened. 

Grown a little calmer, he had taken his staff, and, in a kind 
of dream, had written with it on the sands, in large round char- 
acters, her name — 

“ Priscilla.” 

Then, taken by a sudden fancy, he had added another to it — 
“Priscilla Christianson.” 

Again and again he wrote it, hurriedly blotting it out after- 
ward with his foot, for fear it might be read by eyes profane. 

But the last time he wrote it thus, defiance held him, and he 
let the bold words stand. Yes, he cared not who read them — if 
they were read by her. by all the world! He loved her, he would 
possess her, he would make her his wife! She should be Pris- 
cilla Christianson in good deed. 

A.nd yet, how hopeless it all seemed! He felt thaLeYen as he 
toyed with the sweet thought of possession^ Slf? was so far 
above him. He was so common, she so pure and fair. He 
hated his rude strength, his strong hands, his coarse breeding, 


GOD AND THE 3IAN. 61 

Ob, why had he not been born gentle, like— like Richard 
Orchardson, his foe! 

Well, happen what might, no Orchardson should possess her 
— that he swore to himself over and over again; and as he did 
so the murderous devil which filled the heart of Cain crept into 
his. His thought traveled back to the sad morning, long before, 
when the boy Richard lay bleeding on the ground before him; 
and oh, be thought to himself, if his enemy had never risen 
again to cross his path! 

He walked wildly away, leaving the name, “ Priscilla Chris- 
tianson,” written large on the sands. A little later Richard Or- 
chardson rode over that very spot, and had he looked down 
might have read the words. 

As he passed they were obliterated by his horse’s hoofs. 

That night, and the day which followed it, were hours of 
fierce torture for Christian; the fiercer because he dared not, or 
rather would not, show it to either mother or sister. His mother 
was now very infirm, and seldom left her chair, an ancient piece 
of furniture of black oak, with high straight back, like that of 
a prie-Dieu. Much sorrow and deep suppressed passion had 
told terribly upon her senses, which were fast beginning to fail; 
but her Bible was ever at her right hand as of old. As for gen- 
tle Kate, she also had greatly changed, constantly avoiding her 
brother’s presence, and when within his gaze, seeming highly 
nervous and distraught. 

On the morning of the second day, as Christian stood at the 
door preparing to go forth, a vision came before his eyes. Pris- 
cilla herself was tripping up to the gloomy house, with her 
brightest look upon her. 

Directly she saw him she waved her hand, and cried: 

“ May I enter, good Christian ?” 

He ran forward, and took her little hand in both of his. 

“ And welcome!” he said, trembling. “ Why did you come?” 

“ To see your good mother.” 

“ My mother!” 

Yes. I have heard that she is sick and ailing, and perhaps 
I may bring her a little cheer. Your pretty sister, too — I wish 
to see her.” 

“Come in, ’’said Christian, scarcely knowing what he said. 

He led her gently into the dark parlor, where the old dame 
sat erect, with the film of years upon her eyes. She did not see 
them till they came quite near and spoke her name. Then 
Christian told her who the stranger was, and why she had 
come. 

“She is welcome,” said the dame, gloomily. 

With the sweetness peculiar to her, Priscilla took her place 
by the dame’s side, and soon beguiled her into conversation; so 
that presently she brightened a little, and relaxed her look of 
gloom. Then the maiden opened the Bible, and read a chapter 
in her musical voice, to which the dame listened well content, 
though the chapter chosen contained little of the thunder in 
which she delighted. Finally, at Christian’s request, she sang 


GOD AND THE MAN. 


6S 

a simple hymn, so sweetly and so simply that Christian, though 
he knew her gift of song so well, was spell-bound. 

As she ended, Kate Christianson came in, and fixed her great 
sad eyes upon her with timid wonder. The contrast was strange 
between Kate’s soft, wistful, scared-looking face, and the per- 
fectly peaceful lineaments of Priscilla. 

•‘Your sister,” said Priscilla, and kissed her. Then she fixed 
upon her one of her steadfast, truthful, questioning looks; for 
something in Kate's expression touched her to the heart. 

A little later, when she rose to go, having left sunshine in 
every part of the house she had entered, Christian followed her. 
They walked out of the old house together. 

“Your sister seems sorrowful,” said Priscilla. “ Hath she 
had any trouble?” • 

“ All our folk have had trouble,” answered Christian. 

“ But any great trouble ? She looks like one whose heart 
failed her, and who sought a friend.” 

“ A friend ?” 

“ Yes — to speak her sorrows to, and be relieved.” 

“She has my mother.” 

“Ah, that is different,” returned Priscilla, thoughtfully; and 
she walked along in silence. 

She had a message up to the village, she said, and she was 
going there straightway. Might he walk with her a portion of 
the way ? She assented with a smile, and he remained by her 
side. 

For the time being he had almost forgotten the existence of 
Richard Orchardson, or of any possible rival or opponent. He 
was too happy in her mere presence, in the light of her face, in 
the sound of her voice. He felt, as before, like the men who 
walked with angels toward some shining land. 

At last she paused and held out her hand. 

“You must come no further,” she said, smiling. 

“ Wherefore not ?” 

“Ido not wish it, that is all.” 

Christian bent his head in immediate assent, for he loved, in 
his strength, to feel her mastery over him. 

“ That is enough. What you wish, I shall do.” 

“Everything?” 

“ Yes, everything, except ” 

He paused, reddening, for he remembered bow she had be- 
sought him to take Richard Orchardson by the hand. 

“ Except forgive your enemies,” she said sadly, finishing the 
sentence for him. “Ah, well, the day may come when you 
will not refuse me everfthatN 

He turned back, leaving her to proceed upon her way. 
Scarcely had he done so, than the evil spirit which is ever at the 
ear of the jealous began to ask, ‘-Why hath she dismissed me ? 
To whom is she telling her message?” Sick with the fear 
which these questions awakened, he followed her at a distance, 
keeping well from view. 

She passed through the village, nodding to Cobbler Marvel, 
who stood in his usual deshabille at his garden gate; she passed 


OOD AND THE MAN. 


63 


the church, the village school; then reaching the further side of 
the village, she came to a green lane. 

Air was very quiet and lonely here, though human habitations 
were so close. Entering the lane she walked more slowly, 
loitered and waited, and once or twice looked round. 

Then Christian slunk back behind a friendly hedge and 
waited. 

Presently she hastened her steps; and looking out, Christian 
saw a figure approaching along the lane. She stood and waved 
her handkerchief; the figure waved in return. It was the figure 
of a man. 

Christian’s head swam — he could scarcely see. 

The two figures met, and as they did so, Christian recognized 
in Priscilla’s companion the man he most hated to behold. 

Christian stood rooted to the ground, watching the meeting 
of the two figures. Any one seeing his livid, distorted face 
just then would have been startled by its terrible expression. 
If, as Swedenborg and other supreme mystics have laboriously 
proved, the face is the index of the soul, and by the face alone 
an ‘‘angel” or a “devil” (according to the Swedenborgian 
terminology, with its occult meanings) may be recognized, then 
surely, at that moment. Christian stood in the category of evil 
spirits. All the forward-looking lightness, all the dreamy hope 
and fear, of early and noble manhood, had faded from his 
countenance, leaving only in their place the black shadow of 
ignoble passion. Such a look, indeed, might Cain have worn, 
when he saw his beautiful altar overthrown, and the lightning 
of heaven playing scornfully upon his sacrifice. 

After a minute of rapid conversation, the two figures moved 
slowly on side by side, along the green lane. Slipping from his 
shelter, and keeping as well as possible from view, he followed, 
with his eyes fixed upon them, watching their slightest move- 
ment. When they paused, as they did from time to time, he ^ 
paused, too, slipping into the shadow of a green hedge. But 
they did not once look back. That their talk was animated 
every gesture proved; and that it was pleasant talk he also 
knevv, for once or twice she laughed merrily, and turned a 
bright face upon the face of her companion. Never before in 
his life had he felt such a sickening sense of moral meanness. 
To play the spy as he was doing was foreign to his nature; he 
hated them, he hated and despised himself; yet the dark spirit 
of jealousy had him by the hair, and he felt powerless to resist 
its cruel hold. So he watched and followed, look by look, and 
step by step. 

The lane passed under a canopy of boughs, made by tall ash- 
trees intermingling their branches overhead; at its further end 
stood the gate of a little old-fashioned lodge, untenanted and 
fallen into decay. This Christian knew well; it was one of the 
lodge entrances to the many -gabled ancestral dwelling where 
his enemies dwelt — the Willows. 

He saw Richard Orchardson swing the gate open, while she 
passed in. Something merry passed between them, and he sa\y 


64 


GOD AND THE MAN. 


their faces turn a^ain to each other in the sunshine; then they 
passed into the shadow of trees beyond and disappeared. 

He felt that he could follow no "further. Duped and bafiSed, 
like the evil spirit in the play when he saw the sign of the pen- 
tagram on Faust’s threshold, he shrank back, and turned his 
weary footsteps home. 


CHAPTER X. 

UP AT THE WILLOWS. 

Richard Orchardson and Priscilla walked on side by side be- 
neath the trees, a straggling colonnade of ash, planted many a 
long year before; and emerging thence, came out upon an open 
space of green, in the center of which was a large tarn or pond, 
surrounded on every side by water willows, with silver tresses 
dangling and dipping upon* the water’s brim. Fronting the 
tarn was the house, a quaint Elizabethan structure of red brick, 
with a terrace, where once upon a time (if traditions were true) 
Queen Bess herself had walked and mused, one night when she 
had rested, a stately guest, beneath that roof. It was a quaint 
and lonely habitation, only partly tenable, for the Orchardsons 
were ever a small family, and used few of its many rooms. 

Approaching the terrace, they ascended to it by a broad flight 
of crumbling steps, and came upon a semicircular space, in the 
center of which was a sun-dial surrounded by flowers, and not 
far from the dial a rustic seat. 

“How beautiful!” exclaimed the maiden; and she added, 
looking at the dial. “ and what is this ?” 

“ ’Tis our sun-dial,” answered Richard, smilingly. 

“ To tell the hour by.” 

“Certainly, when there is sufficient sunshine.” 

“ I have heard of such pretty devices; and see, here are the 
hours graven letter by letter. Teach me to read it now.” 

“Look where the shadow fails, slanting from tlie index. It is 
past twelve o’ the clock, or rather o’ the dial, as you may see.” 

“ ’Tis so indeed,” cried Priscilla, watching the moveless 
shadow with earnest eyes. “ But when there is no sun, how do 
you reckon then ?” 

“ Then we go within, and look at the clock!” 

“ See the flowers, how they climb around, as if they would 
cover the dial’s shining face. ’Tis a sweet thought, to measure 
our days by the sunlight, among leaves and flowers. I have 
heard my father say that in old times they reckoned time with 
dripping water, as they do still with slipping sand in the hour- 
glass.” 

“Yes; they had a water clock, invented by one of their wise 
men. But sit here, I prithee, and look at the prospect; is it not 
fair ? And look on what side you will, far as you please, the 
land is ours.” 

Priscilla sat upon the garden-seat, and looked around as he 
desired. On all sides stretched flowery walks, green plantations, 
meadows, and fields of grain. Even as she gazed, a thought 


OOD AND THE MAN. 


65 


came to her, troubling lier bright expression; she lifted her eyes 
to his, and said, quietly and slowly: 

“Since you had so much, why did you seek more?*’ 

“I do not understand,” he exclaimed, smiling down upon 
her. 

“ Christian has told me,” she said, simply. “ Your father 
coveted his land, and took it from his father.” 

Richard’s face blackened; the very name of his fee came like 
a sting. But he conquered his annoyance in a moment, and re- 
plied, with well-assumed quiet and indifference. 

“ If Master Christian has told you that old tale. 1 hope he 
hath told it truly. My father loaned to his father large sums of 
money, and even when the sums were not returned, nor the fair 
interest paid, my father in pity forbore his lawful claim. ’Twas 
not till the Christiansons were wickedly ungi-ateful, till they did 
us grievous injury passing patience, that we seized our own.” 

As he spoke, Richard saw his father approaching — a tall, 
stooping figure, with sometliing of his own delicacy of feature, 
but a harsher and less refined expression. The squire expressed 
no surprise either in word or look on seeing his son’s companion, 
but coming up, took off his hat with an old-fashioned bow. 

“This is young Mistress Sefton,” said Richard, “of whom I 
have spoken to you.” 

Priscilla rose and courtesied; the squire bowed again. 

“ The young lady is right welcome. I have heard of your 
father from others, and my son, as he saith, has spoken to 
me much of you.” 

The squire did not add that he had heard of Mr. Sefton as a 
half-crazy fanatic, with most preposterous notions concerning 
religion. Under ordinary circumstances, Mr. Orchardson, who 
was a stanch churchman, more from political than spiritual 
motives, would certainly not have received a person of “ malig- 
nant” connections with so much urbanity; but in this case he 
had particular reasons (which he had not explained even to his 
son, but whicli will presently be apparent) for being civil to 
this pretty visitor. Urged by the same reasons, he had inter- 
posed no objection, uttered no admonition, wdien he had first 
lieard of his son’s acquaintance with the Seftons, but had, on 
the contrary, quietly encouraged a friendship, which, common 
experience told him, might readily ripen into love. 

After some minutes’ desultory conversation, throughout 
which he continued to treat Priscilla with a courtliness unusual 
to him, he led the way into the house, passing through an open 
glass folding door into a great chilly drawing-room, the old- 
fashioned furniture of which was carefully mummied up in 
holland cloth. Here he summoned his housekeeper, and ordered 
tea, which was served very strong, in tiny cups of the rarest 
china. 

“And how fares your father?” he demanded kindly, as Pris- 
cilla sat and sipped the pleasant beverage. “ He is a frail man 
to wander from place to place alone.” 

“Not alone,” answered Priscilla, “since we go everywhere 
together.” 


60 


OOD AND THE MAN, 


“Nay, but pardon me, you yourself are but a child. It con- 
cerns me that you and he, who might be dwelling in comfort 
like the gentlefolk you are. should be as houseless wanderers 
upon the earth. ’Tis a strange life for both.” 

“So we are often told,” said Priscilla quietly, “and so were 
the apostles told, long ago.” 

Richard glanced at liis father, deprecating any controversy, 
and the squire, with a smile and a nod, turned the talk into other- 
channels; showed the maiden his pictures and his few books; 
told her carelessly some of the old legends of the house, which 
were many; and altogether proved himself so agreeable and 
charming a host that even his son was astonished. 

An hour later, Richard accompanied Priscilla back to the vil- 
lage where her father was staying that night under the roof of 
Cobbler Marvel. Returning thence, after a pleasant parting 
and a warm hand-shake, he enter(?d the lodge gate and walked 
slowly up the shadowy avenue — his eyes still full of Priscilla’s 
loveliness, his heart beating high with the dream of possible pos- 
session. 

Suddenly he started and stood still, as a figure emerged from 
the shadow of the trees and stood before him; the figure of a 
woman cloaked and hooded. 

“ Richard!” 

“Kate!” 

The hood fell back, and showed, in the dim light, the pallid 
face of Kate Christianson. 

“ I have been waiting for you,” cried Kate quickly; “thank 
God, you’re come at last!” 

“What do you seek with me?” returned the other, irritably. 
“You came upon me like a ghost, and — well, well, what 
is it?” 

She gazed at him with great, tearful eyes, and, without reply- 
ing, began to sob bitterly, and wring her hands. 

He uttered an angry exclamation, and turned on his heel. 

“ Go home; we shall be seen.” 

“ Nay, if we were, I heed not. Things have gone too far be 
tween us to let us part so, and I care not now if the whole world 
know liow cruel you have been to me. Richard! for the love of 
God, be not so hard; speak kindly, Richard, and I will try to 
forgive you still.” 

“ You are talking folly.” answered the young man. “ What 
have you to forgive? Good Kate, I prithee let us talk some 
other time; to-night I am in haste.” 

“ You shall not go,” cried the girl, wildly, holding him with 
trembling hands. “ No, not yet!” 

“ Are you mad ? Kate, as >ou love me ” 

“ God help me, methinks ’tis more like hate than love that 
fills ray poor heart. Who is she you have been walking with so 
long?” 

He looked at her, and smiled without replying. 

“ Will you not answer me? Nay, vou need not. for I know 
her. She is the blind preacher’s daughter from Brightlinghead. 
and you have gone a-courting her as you did come a-courting 


QOD AND THE MAN, 


67 


me; and I have watched you, Richard, and seen you smile upon 
!ier as you used to smile on me; but take heed, for more than 
one has been a-watching:, and if I spoke the word ” 

“ What do you mean ?” he cried, sharply, shaking off her hold 
upon him, and seizing her arm in his turn. 

Never mind,” she answered, meeting his eyes with a curious 
look. 

‘•Hark you, Kate Christianson. I am getting tired of your 
weary words and peevish ways. You used to be pleasant com- 
pany, but now ” 

“ But now, since you are tired of my company, you seek an- 
other’s.” 

“ And if I do, who can prevent me?” 

She uttered a low cry, and raised her hand threateningly. 

“I can! Nay, Richard, you need not laugh. I can; and I 
will!” 

“ Yo u r 

“ I have but to speak one word ” 

“Speak — to whom, prithee?” 

“ To Christian, my brother.” 

He flung her arm from him with a gesture of complete con- 
tempt, but for all that he trembled, for he knew well that the 
threat was not altogether a vain one, and the memory of that 
never-forgotten day, when he lay bleeding upon the ground and 
Christian stood frowning over him, passed darkly across his 
soul. 

“I care neither for him nor you. If he dares to cross my 
path, I will crush him as I would crush a toad. So threaten 
no more, but let me go.” 

“Richard, for God’s sake, listen!” cried the girl suddenly 
changing her angry tone to one of despairing entreaty. “ I di(i 
not mean to threaten— in good deed I did not; but you are so 
cold, so cruel— you do make me mad. ’Twas for your sake I 
came hither to night— to warn you against my brother.” 

“ What!” 

“ He hath been watching too.” 

“ Watching?” 

“ He followed the preacher maiden until she met you, and 
then he followed again until you entered the lodge gate iu her 
company.” 

“ And what then?” 

“ He loves her, Richard, and if you come between him and 
her ” 

“ Well ?” 

“ He will MU you, Richard!” 

Richard grew very pale, but instantly recovering his self-pos- 
session covered his real trepidation with an educated sneer. 

“’Tis like your brother’s impudence to raise his eyes to yon- 
der maiden, who is a lady born. Do you know, good Kate, 
your brother is a boor, and is better placed at the plowtail than 
at a gentlewoman’s elbow ? I do not think you can be serious 
when you speak of his loving Mistress Sefton.” 

Now, poor Kate loved her brother, and though she was natu- 


08 


GOD AND THE MAN. 


rally of a weak and timid nature, she loted him too well to 
hear him slightly spoken of; moreover, in this tender question 
she had double interest at stake, for if Christian was Richard’s 
rival, Priscilla was, by the same token, hers. So she replied 
bravelv, without the least hesitation: 

“ My brother is as good a man as you, and fit for any lady in 
the land.” 

“ Bah! your brother is a clown!” 

“ If he were nigh, you would not dare to say so,” responded 
Kate, while Richard’s face grew paler still, and his lip quivered. 
“If I were to go to him this night, and tell him what hath 
passed between us, do you think he would spare you ?~and he 
suspects, remember that!” 

“ What do you mean ?’ cried Richard eagerly. 

“ He witnessed our parting one night near the four-acre mere, 
and he taxed me fiercely with meeting an Orchardson. Alack! 
had he guessed how often we had met, how I had given my 
heart to the enemy of our house, what would he have said ? I 
dread his wrath and my mother’s; she would curse me, for I 
have broken my oath upon the book. And they must know full 
soon. Listen, Richard — there is something more I came to tell 
you— it is terrible, but ’tis time that you should know.” 

She put her lips to his ear, and whispered; he started as if he 
had been stung by some venomous snake, and uttered an oath. 

“ No!” 

“ God help me, it is true.” 

“ I tell you it is impossible, you are a fool, and you are de- 
ceiving yourself. No, I’ll not believe it.” 

“ Alas! the day is nigh when you must believe it, and all the 
world too. Biit l shall not live to see that day — no, for my 
heart will be broken, and I shall die.” 

She hid her face in her hands, crying bitterly, while he stood 
gazing at her in gloomy dislike and irritation. Night had now 
fallen, but the skies above were full of a faint palpitating star- 
light, like the ghost of day. 

At last Kate looked up and dried her tearful eyes. 

“ Richard,” she said, “ I have thought it all over, and there is 
only one way. When we are married ” 

As she spoke the word, he started, and frowned darkly. 

“ When we are married we will go to my brother and ask 
his forgiveness. He will be angry at first, perchance, but see- 
ing ’tis too late, he will work round in time. Dear Richard, let 
us speak to the parson, and when we are wedded man and 
woman before God, perchance we may be forgiven.” 

The young man looked at her in growing dislike and dread, 
and after a brief silence replied: 

“Listen, Kate! Let there be an end to this folly between us 
twain. I am in no mood to marry, and if I were, I could never 
marry one of your house. Nay,” he continued, as she wrung 
her hands with a low wail, “ ’tis no use to cry and plead. Be a 
wise woman, Kate. Keep our secret, and when you marry 
some honest yeoman, as you may, I will take care you shall not 
lack for dower.” 


GOD AND THE MAN, 


09 


“ Oh, Richard, speak not so! You will keep your promise ?” 

“ What promise 

“To make me your wedded wife.” 

“ I never promised, and if I did I repent me. Our two houses 
can never be united; but what we know, no other living soul 
need know if you are wise.” 

“ No, no! I will speak to my brother! I will tell him.” 

“You will tell him nothing, good Kate; you love your hon- 
est name too well. And if you did, what then? Do you think 
I fear him? Now, kiss me, and be sure that I remain your 
friend.” 

“ Do not touch me! Oh, Richard, you have broken my 
heart.” 

“ Not I! Give me your hand and swear.” 

“I will drown myself this night!” 

“You will do no such foolish thing.” 

“What have I left to live for? My brother’s hate, my 
mother’s curse. ’Twas an evil day when I was bom; most evil 
day of all, when I trusted an Orchardson. Let me go! ’Tis all 
over now forever and ever!” 

He tried to hold her in his arms, but she tore herself free with 
a wild cry, and ran from him into the darkness. For a mo- 
ment he seemed about to follow her, but refrained and stood 
listening to her retreating footsteps. In good truth, he placed 
little value upon her threats and passionate words, for he was 
used to such scenes. Again and again, of late, her manner and 
language had been violent to desperation; again and again she 
had threatened to let the world know of the relations between 
them; but nothing had come of it hitherto, and he did not 
seriously believe that anything would come of it now. At the 
same time, he could not help reflecting, with a nervous shudder, 
on the dangerous character of his hereditary foe, who so seri- 
ously provoked, would certainly not hesitate before taking some 
desperate revenge. 

“The fellow is a wild beast in my path,” ho reflected, as he 
walked slowly toward the Willows; “ as long as he breathes the 
same ai)', I shall never be quite safe. Can it be possible that 
the wench was right, and that he presumes to raise his eyes to 
Priscilla? And Priscilla ? She is so tender of heart, that she 
would smile upon the meanest thing in her path; but her smiles 
mean nothing — she would never cast her thoughts so low. Well, 
be that as it may, I wish the clown were buried in the church- 
yard, or lying twenty fathoms deep in the salt sea.” 

So musing and muttering to himself, Richard Orchardson re- 
turned to the house, and found his father awaiting him in the 
large apartment, half parlor, half lumber-room, which was 
known as the gun chamber. The walls were hung with sport- 
ing pictures, fowling-pieces and pistols, and 'trophies of the 
phase. 

The squire was reading an old book on hunting, but looked 
up with a smile. 

“ Well ?” 

“Well, father?” 


70 


GOD AXD THE MAN. 


“ Did you see her to her home ? A pretty maiden, and gently 
reared. *1 am glad you brought her to me, and I hope she will 
come again. Did you see the afflicted man. her father?’- 

“ Not to-night. We parted at Cobbler Marvel’s door.” 

“ What a place to shelter one so fair!” 

“ All roofs are alike to them— the richest or the meanest.” 

The squire rose and stood facing his son, with a curious ex- 
pression upon his face. 

“ And yet, Richard, this blind preacher, who goes about al- 
most like a beggar, and who has scarcely a roof to cover his 
head, is a richer man than I, your father, and might, if he chose, 
be holding up his head among the grandest folk in London.” 

“ Is it possible ?” cried Richard, in no little surprise. 

“It is cert in,” said Mr. Orchardson; “ and if he were to die 
suddenly to-morrow, yonder pretty maiden would be an heiress.” 

“ I I bought he had given away his substance in charity, and 
lived only upon a pittance reserved to him.” 

“ ’Tis not quite so bad as that,” answered the squire, still 
smiling. 

“ The poor fool hath squandered much in so-called almsgiving 
and missionary work, but the bulk remains, and much of that 
he cannot even touch — which is a mercy, for the sake of the 
young dame, whom he might beggar.” 

“ How learned you this, father?” 

“ From one in London who knows him well, and whose 
knowledge has never yet played me false. The pretty maiden 
herself knows not of her good fortune, or only dimly guesses it; 
for her father enacts every day and hour the cometly of being 
apostolically poor. So now, son Richard, that you see which 
w’ay the hare is running, and know where her cover lies, will 
you gallop still ?” 

“ What do you mean, father?” 

The squire laughed, and placed his hand on his son’s shoulder. 

“ Do you think I know not, lad, when young folk favor one 
another ? Well, win her; I tell you she is worth the winning. 
Think you I would have suffered you to go a psalm singing so 
long, in such company, had I not been warned that all was 
well?” 

There was a long silence. Richard sat in a chair gazing 
thoughtfully down, while his father kept his keen eyes fixed 
upon his flushed face, well pleased. 

At last the young man looked up. 

“ Father, I shall do my best, for indeed I love the girl: but 
one stands in my wav.” 

“ Who. lad, who?” 

Richard pointed to his forehead, with a venomous smile. 

“ He who marked me for life. Christian Christianson.” 

CHAPTER XI. 

ANOTHER LOVE SCENE. 

Meantime Christian was once more having his dark hour 
alone; wandering seaward with mad jealousy in his heart and 


71 


QOD AND THE MAN, 

the shadow of mortal hate upon bis face; raging, fretting, plan- 
ning; darkly, desolately driven by the wind of bis own passion, 
like a cloud in the wind of its own speed. Had he known the 
full truth that day, had Kate found him then and told him of 
the evil wrought by her own feebleness and the baseness of his 
rival, he would have flown like a wild beast to avenge his 
house’s injury, and expend his own dark desire;* and the hours 
of his enemy would surely have been numbered. But he felt 
as yet in his own heart, despite his Jealous fury, that he had no 
righteousr cause for violence. The woman he loved had her 
right, as well as he, and if she chose to seek Richard Orchard- 
son’s company he had no claim to control her liberty of choos- 
ing. Nothing had passed between them that would justify his 
interference; and although he felt mad with her for her perti- 
nacity and her indifference to his personal dislikes and hates, he 
was in no sense master of her life. 

It seemed to him, indeed, at that time, that all was ended be* 
t\veen them. She had come like a beautiful spirit on his life, 
stirring its deepest fountains with a new revivifying light; but 
now it was over. As calmly and as freely as she came to him — 
nay, as it seemed, with a kinder touch and a tenderer smile — 
she had gone, would daily go, to the man he hated most. He 
had no power to control her. Bitter as it was to bear, he knew 
it was hopeless to protest, unless she herself should change of 
her own free will. With one so pure, so passionless, violent en- 
treaty was of no avail. She was the stronger spirit still, his 
mistress and his superior— that he felt most keenly; and his 
baffled anger kept him in despair. 

Was it true, then, that she loved Richard Orchardson ? Was 
it fated that, even in love itself, his enemy should wreck his life 
and darken his dreams? Yes, it was possible. Even amid the 
storm of his unreasoning bate, he felt the superiority of Richard 
Orchardson in all those gifts which are dear to women-folk: iu 
delicacy of nurture, in gentleness of breeding and education, in 
fairness of feature and courtliness of mien. Priscilla, herself, 
was a town lady, while he was country-bred. In his own sight 
he was coarse, clumsy, ungainly, while she was delicacy itself. 
Could so rough a hand as his be suffered to pluck so pretty a 
blossom ? No, he felt that he was fated to lose her, and his 
anguish was, that what he lost, the enemy of his house might 
gain. 

Had Christian been able to see deeper into the heart of Pris- 
cilla Sefton, he might have been a happier and a calmer naan. 
In her eyes, his very wildness and strength had a fascination. 
Though she rebuked his violent passions, observing them and 
rising above them with her characteristic serenity, she did not 
dislike him for them — anymore than she disliked the sea for 
being turbulent, or the clouds for breaking into sullen thunder. 
Rather, it was a charm to her to encounter such a nature for 
the first time, as it was a charm to stand under the clouds and 
to look upon the sea. Nor could one with eyes so susceptible to 
natural impressions be blind to Christian’s striking physical 
beauty. He was pre-eminently a handsome man, though his 


12 


OOD AND THE MAN. 


handsomeness was that of a Hercules, perfect in strength and 
manhood; and his face had the splendor of perfect sincerity and 
truthfulness, even when shadowed by unreasoning passion. 
That her Hercules was submissive to her slightest wish or whim, 
and would at her bidding have cheerfully sat down to the distaff, 
like Hercules of old, was still no disparagement in her eyes; for 
his obedience was that of a strong will voluntarily bending to a 
charm, rather than that of a weak will to be conquered by the 
nobler and the stronger. 

Fortunately for Christian’s peace of mind, they metagain by 
accident that very afternoon. As he walked in his favorite 
haunt among the sandhills, he saw her passing below him to- 
ward the sea. She looked up and saw him and beckoned, smil- 
ing. He walked down to her rapidly, scarcely knowing wliat 
he did. 

“ I am going down to the shore,” she said, “ to. gather green 
sea-moss for my father’s eyes. Will you come with me?” 

He gazed at her as if in a dream, and made no reply; but as 
she moved on he followed close behind her. 

She talked on, with her happy unconsciousness of manner, 

“ Dame Marvel tells me that the sea-moss boiled till it makes 
a jelly, is good for healing soreness of sight, and my father’s 
eyes are very tender. Will you tell me where to find it?” 

“ Yes,” said Christian, in a low voice; “ but the moss you 
seek grows on the shiny pebbles below high-tide mark, and you 
cannot gather it now. You will see it in great patches like 
stains upon the sand; the gray plover feed upon it in winter, 
and the black brent geese swum in to seek it, from the open 
sea.” 

He hardly knew wliat he w’as saying, but he spoke out of the 
fullness of his country knowledge, and the words came. She 
looked at him curiously with a certain admiration. 

“ Y’ou know everything, good Christian,” she cried, smiling; 
“ all the flowers that grow, and all the fowl of the air, and even 
the virtues of the herbs of the sea. Will you gather some for 
me to-morrow, and bring it to me, or shall I come again?” 

“ I will bring it to you if you please.” 

“ We sleep to-night at Cobbler Marvel’s. Bring it there.” 

She turned as if about to leave him, but he reached out his 
bands to detain her. Surprised at the touch, and even more by 
his sudden change of manner, she flushed a little, and her smile 
faded. 

“ Do not go yet,” he exclaimed. 

She raised her e>’es to his face, and saw it burning. For the 
first time during their acquaintance she trembled, and partly 
lost her self-possession. 

“ Well, good Christian!” she said, forcing another smile. 

“ When we parted to-day, I folio w’ed you: yes, I suspected 
something, and I followed to watch — and I saw you meet with 
hwi. You met him, and you w alked with him upon his father’s 
lands, perchance into his father’s house. Nay, do not deny it, 
for I saw it with mine own eyesl I watched you till I could 
watch no more, and came away.” 


GOD AND THE MAN. 


73 


The words came rapidly without premeditation, and before he 
knew it he found himself arrogating a power over her which he 
knew she must resent. But he was desperate. He scarcely 
cared what he said, or what might be the consequences of his 
words. He felt a wild desire to come to open quarrel with her, 
and so ease choking thoughts — even if he should afterward have 
to fall upon his knees and crave her pardon. 

She looked at him in surprise and pain; when he ceased, she 
looked at him still, but kept silence. Then he went on: 

“ When I first knew you, I thought you were kind and good, 
too good and kind to give me pain; those first days were the 
happiest of my life; I worshiped you — nay, the very ground you 
trod on, for I thought you something so far above me. But 
since he hath come between us, you have been different. You 
have not seemed to care, and when I have warned you. you 
have seemed to think better of him than me. Let there be an 
end to it all this day. Tell me with your own lips that you love 
him. and I will never trouble you again.” 

The w’ords were strange, coming from one who had never, 
save in the most far-off hints and looks, revealed his heart be- 
fore. She seemed greatly surprised, nor was her surprise with- 
out a certain tinge of ind ignation. 

*• Wliat do you mean ?” she said. “Love him ? — love whom ?” 

“ Him—ihQ very name chokes me: the man you kept tryst 
wit li to-day.” 

“Mr. Orchardson?” 

“Yes. Is it true? Speak!” , 

“You are asking a foolish question. If I loved any man — 
even if it were true, I mean — do you think I should reply?” 

“ Then you do not deny it?” 

“ You have no right to ask me.” 

He leaned his face close to hers, and she felt his breath upon 
her cheek. 

“ I have this right, Priscilla — that I am mad with love for 
you myself; that my love is torturing me, killing me; that I 
would die if I knew for certain that you loved that man.” 

“ You know not what you say,” she cried quickly. “ You are 
a boy, and you talk without thinking. If I did not think that, 
I should be angry.” 

Before she could say another word, or move away, he was on 
his knees before her, holding her by both hands. 

“ For God’s sake, pity me. I love you, Priscilla!” 

A w'arm fiush suffused her cheek, but she retained her self- 
possession. She tried to release herself, but finding herself help- 
less in his strong hold, struggled no more. Gazing intently into 
his upturned face, and meeting his ardent and reckless gaze, 
she said firmly, 

•* You must not speak to me like that. No man has ever done 
so before, and I will not suffer it.” 

“Then you hate me, and you love him ?” 

“ I do neither,” 

“Tell me the truth— I can bear it!” 

“ I will tell you nothing. Release me, sir!” 


74 


GOD AND THE MAE. 


But he had gone too far novr to retreat. Having once broken 
the ice, he persisted in passionate confession. In a torrent of 
burning speech, he spoke of his wild adoration. Despair made 
him eloquent, and, though usually reticent, he found no lack of 
words. 

“ I am so sorrv,” she cried, when he paused in agitation. “ I 
thought you a true friend, and now it is all different. Why do 
you speak of such things ? We are both too young.” 

He sprung to his feet, with trembling outstretched arms. 

“I am a better man than he,” he said. “ Put us face to face, 
and let the bravest win: unless— unless you are like all the rest, 
and choose him who has the most of land and gold.” 

“ I choose no one. 1 shall never marry, aud if I did ” 

“ You cannot always bide alone. I will work for you, slave 
and toil for you. Teil me that I may perchance win you if I 
prove myself worthy, and I shall be content. Promise me.” 

“ I will promise nothing. It is wicked to vex me so. Let us 
be friends. Be my good Christian still, and I will try to forget 
that you have spoken what is unmaldenly to hear,” 

“ You can listen cheerfully enough when he speaks.” 

“ He has never spoken as you speak,” she replied sorrowfully; 
“he is gentle, and would not so distress me.” 

“But you know he loves you.” 

“Nay, I do not know it.” 

“He* loves you, Priscilla, and who would not? But bethink 
yourself — he will never feel for you as 1 feel, neverl You are 
more to me than the light of the sun, than the breath of my nos- 
trils, than my immortal soul. Without you I cannot live; with 
you, I should be a happy man — the happiest in all God’s world!” 

It was not in Priscilla’s gentle nature to be unmoved by such 
an appeal, spoken with so intense and spirit-stirring a sincerity. 
As she listened on she sighed deeply, and finally reaching out 
her little hand she said, in a voice broken by quiet tears: 

“ Good Master Christian, how can I answer you ? I am sure 
you speak out of your heart, and would not willingly give me 
offense; but what can I say now% further than I have said? 
Only this, that I would you cared for some better and worthier 
woman — one who would make you a fitting wife aud helpmate! 
and love you as you deserve. For myself, what am I but a sim- 
ple maiden, neither thinking nor dreaming yet of wedlock ? My 
place is with my father; where he goes I follow; and soon, per- 
chance, we shall be far from here.” 

“You are not going away!” cried Christian, with a sickening 
sense of dread. 

“ I cannot tell,” was the reply. “ Mv father hath now done 
all he can do in these parts, and he hath many calls to other 
places.” 

“And if you go, what will become of me? Priscilla, I can- 
not live without you.” 

She shook her head sadly. 

“ We are like two ships in the sea; we have spoken with eacii 
other, that is all, and the world is wide. When I am gone, you 
will be as you were before I came. Bethink you, it is only' a 


GOD AND THE MAN. 75 

few short weeks since first we met. You were well cnotent be- 
fore I came, and when 1 go ” 

“No, no!” exclaimed Christian. “All is changed for me; I 
myself am changed. I am another man in another world. I 
cannot live without you.” 

“ Nay, we have both work to do,” answered Priscilla; “you 
in your place, I in mine. I shall always remember you, and 
this fair country place; and 1 think, good Christian, you will re- 
member me. Shake hands upon it!” 

He took her hand, and pressing it to his lips kissed it pas- 
sionately. 

“ I will follow you to the wmrld’s end!” he cried. 

“ You will do better,” said the maiden, withdrawing her 
hand gently. “ You will try to become a better man, for my 
poor sake.” 

“ A better man!” 

“Yes, Christian. Since you have said so much, may I be 
frank with you in truth ? Even if it could be, even if I willed 
to marry, I should fear your violent disposition.” 

“ Priscilla!” 

“ Nay, hear me out. Your love and your hate are both so 
mad. so wild. You cherish such strange animosities.” 

“ Only against one man in all the world.” 

“ And to hate one man is hate enough,” said Priscilla firmly. 
“ Sometimes, when I have listened to you, when I have heard 
your stormy words, I have been in terror lest some day you 
should do some dreadful deed.” 

“ God help me, and so I might if my love were cast away. 
You can save me from that, you can make me worthy in God’s 
sight.” 

“ Nay, Christian, only your heart can do so much. You must 
learn to chasten it; you must learn that all hate is evil; and 
when you have learned that, you will be able to bear your cross, 
as our Lord did, as any soul on earth may do.” 

She turned away and walked a few paces from him; then 
pausing, reached out her hand again, with her old smile. 

“ Let us part now’ for to day,” she said. “ To-morrow’ ” 

“ To-morrow I will bring you the moss for your father’s 
eyes!” 

“And so you shall,” she cried; and still smiling, she walked 
uw’ay. 

She left him happy. Something peaceful came upon him, 
out of her gentle looks and words. He w’atched her with ador- 
ing eyes till she passed from sight; then with a low cry he hid 
his face in his hands and sobbed. 

Not in sorrow now\ The tears came welling up from his 
overburdened heart; for he felt she pitied him, and knowing 
her heavenly pity, he did not feel wholly cast away. There was 
a comfort, too, in the fact that he had spoken; that henceforth, 
w’hatever might happen, she could not fail to understand him. 
So he looked round on the earth, and on the sea, and up to the 
j^eacefiil heaven; and he blessed, in the name of all these, the 
uiaiden wiio had come to make them clearer, to put new light 


6 


OOD AND THE MAN, 


and color into their ever-changeful hues, as well as into the 

tangled thread of life. 

* * * * * 

"When the sun had set, he wandered home, and entering the 
house found his mother sitting alone in the dark room. 

“Where is Kate ?” she asked. “ I have called for her, but she 
does not come.” 

Christian called his sister’s name aloud, and then, as she did 
not answer, he went to seek her. He passed from room to room, 
but could not find her. This seemed strange, for Kate was a 
home-loving girl, and seldom absent from the bouse. He re- 
turned to his mother, bearing a light with him for the room. 

“I cannot find her,” he said. “ Belike she has gone on some 
errand up to the village, and will soon return.” 

The dame looked pale and astonished; after a pause she said: 

“When did you see her last, my son?” 

“ Not since before noontide. I left her then in the house.” 

“ She went forth soon after thyself, promising to be back 
within an hour. Have you searched in her room ?” 

“Yes, mother.” 

“ Then go forth and look for her. ’Tis time she was come 
home.” 

Accustomed by habit to obey his mother’s slightest wish, 
Christian did not hesitate a moment, but ran forth; searched all 
the out-buildings, looked up and down the farm-fields; shouted 
his sister’s name aloud, without eliciting any reply. It was now 
quite dark, and he began to be seriously alarmed; for Kate, as 
we have said, was home-loving, and little likely to gad about 
after nightfall. Returning into the house, be told his mother 
the state of affairs, and was at once bidden to go up to the vil- 
lage and make inquiries. This he did, but to little avail. Kate 
was nowhere in the village. 

Things now looked ominous. No one had seen the girl since 
early in the afternoon; and the person who had met her last, an 
old laborer, had seen her hastening homeward, by the path 
which wound along the side of the four- a ere mere. Could any 
accident have happened to the girl? When the moon rose, 
Christian stood by the mere-side, and looked at the black, palpi- 
tating water with a fearful heart. Could his poor sister be 
lying there 9 

As he gazed and gazed, a vision rose before him of the girl’s 
pale face, as he had often seen it lately. He had been too much 
absorbed in his own new dreams to take much heed of it at the 
time; but he remembered now, with a twinge of pain, how 
changed she had been. Then came across his brain the memory 
of her encounter that night with Richard Orchardson. Was it 
possible that they liad encountered at other times, or that Or- 
chardson was in any way, however remotely, connected with 
the fact of her disappearance? No, he could scarcely believe it. 
He would not wrong his sister so much as even to entertain the 
suspicion for a moment. She had sworn her oath upon the 
book, and she could never have broken it so desperately. 

That night Kate Christianson did not return home; nor the 


GOB AND THE MaN. 


77 


next, nor the next again. Though Christian searched high and 
low, he could gain no clew to the cause of her disappearance. 
On the third day the^’’ dragged the four-acre mere, but found 
nothing there. 

Pale and terrible in grief, the mother kept her eyes on her 
Bible, as if the end of the search was to be found within it. 

But Kate did not come, and a shadow worse than death re- 
mained in the lonely house. 


CHAPTER XII. 

KATE CHRISTIANSON’S TROUBLE. 

The stream of our narrative now turns aside to follow Kate 
Christianson. On parting from Richard Orchardson she moved 
rapidly away through the surrounding shrubberies, following a 
footpath that she knew well, and which led her to the loneliest 
part of Squire Orchardson’s demesne. As she went she kept up 
a low moaning, like one in pain, and looked neither to right 
nor left; indeed, she seemed, for the time being, deaf and blind 
to the objpcts around her. At last she paused, in the shadow 
of a small plantation, not far from the highway, and sitting 
down upon a bank, hid her face in her hands and rocked herself 
to and fro. 

She waited thus for hours, as if half stupefied. The place was 
solitary, and no one beheld her, or heard the low moaning 
wliich still came from her mouth. The setting sun touched her 
with a finger of crimson fire, but she did not see or feel it. Not 
till it was nearly dark did she rise to her feet and move away. 

Her mind seemed now made up. She returned to the high- 
way; concealing her face with her cloak, and shrinking from 
every form she met, she hastened homeward; passed rapidly 
through the village, and took the lane leading down to the waste 
mere. That some desperate purpose animated her was evident 
from her gestures; for ever and anon she threw her arms in the 
air. and uttered a cry to God. 

Quitting the lane, she ran across a water-meadow, and came 
upon the side of the mere. The sun had just disappeared, but 
a faint refiected light still hung over the scene, and in that light 
the dark water looked more than ever somber and forbidding. 
She looked at the black shallows, she looked at the sad, chill 
sky. Shuddering she shrank back, and began to sob. The hot 
tears came, and saved her from self-murder. No, she could not 
die — not at least that way. “ O God!” she cried, “ what shall I 
do? what shall I do?” 

Then, in her despair and fear she thought she would return 
home. She was not yet missed, and it was not too late to return 
and take her place in the house. And ev n if the worst came 
to the worst, she would fall upon her knees, tell the truth — part 
of it, 'aot all— no, no, not all— and perhaps they miglit forgive 
her. Even if they killed her, what then ? She wished to d^e, 
though she lacked the courage to go flying up and falling at 
God’s feet, a suicide. 

Even as she turned her face toward the farm, something 


GOD AND THE MAN. 


stirred witliin her, like the quickening of another life withiil 
her own. A new horror passed through her. Then, as if she 
had been pursued, and flying in mortal terror, she fled away — 
not homeward, but across the darkened fields. 

A thick white vapor was rising froui the cold earth; she 
passed through it like a ghost, from meadow to meadow, from 
field to field, instinctively familiar with every step of the way, 
though sight w’as useless to guide her. Before long she was out 
upon the open road, and walking rapidly away from her native 
village. 

Her mind was now made up. She would leave her home, 
and seek shelter as far away from pursuit as possible: for she 
knew now that if she lingered even a single day her shame 
would in all probability be discovered. With a sickening hor- 
ror in her heart, and her brain stupefied with a nameless dread, 
she fled on and on. 

Poor Kate was country-bred, and in youth had learned the 
free use of her limbs in all manner of rustic exercise; so al- 
though her mind was crushed down and darkened, her body 
still retained a certain strength. She walked on with little or 
no consciousness of fatigue until two hours before midnight; by 
that time she had left her home ten long miles behind her. She 
found herself on a solitary highway, crossing level flats, wnth a 
clear view of the open moonlit sea. 

By this time she had partially recovered her self-possession, 
and with the instinct of a hunted thing, when the first flash of 
fear has passed, began to plan her movements with a certain 
cunning. Not many miles away, she knew, was a small seaport 
town, from which ships sometimes sailed to distant parts— even 
as far as London, she had heard. She would reach the town 
and go on shipboard, first sending a message to those at home 
and entreating their forgiveness. After that, she cared not 
what became of her. -She would creep to some lonely corner of 
the world, and bury herself past all search, all remembrance. 

On the road before her she saw lights burning, and pressing 
on, she found that they came from a little roadside inn. The 
door was closed, and there seemed no company indoors; but she 
went up and knocked timidly. 

Some chains were loosened and a bolt drawn; a shock- haired 
head looked out upon her, that of a man holding a rushlight. 
He glared at her with true country suspicion. 

“Who be there?” he growled. “A woman? What d’ye 
want at this hour of night?” • 

“ How far away, good man, to Norton-by-the-Sea ?” 

The man looked at her suspiciously for a few moments before 
he replied: 

“ To Norton? Why, five mile and more. Be vou going there 
to-night?” 

“Yes.” 

Reassured by her obvious timidity of manner, the man threw 
open I he door, and came out upon the threshold. 

“ Let me have a look at thee,” he cried, holding the light to 


GOD AND THE MAN, 79 

her face. “ Where do you come from, that call so late. You 
be a stranger, mistress?'’ 

“ Yes, that I be! Good-night, and thank you kindly.” 

“Stopl” cried the man. “If you be a stranger, and come 
o’ decent folk, you can ha’ a bed here for payment, a clean bed 
and supper too, if you will. ’Tis time all honest folk should be 
abed, and there be bad chaps about these roads.” 

But Kate would not rest yet. She thanked the man, and 
turned away.” 

“Good-night,” she said again. 

“Good-night,” growled the man, and closed the door upon 
her. 

She walked on for another hour; then she saw, far away be- 
fore her, the lights of the town she sought. The sight gave her 
new strength, and she hastened toward it. 

By midnight she was on the skirts of the town. All was very 
still; no one stirring. Slie went on, looking for some place 
where she might knock for shelter. As she did so, she felt the 
same sickening and terrifying sensation that she had felt by the 
mere-side. In a moment she became dizzy, tottered to a door- 
step, and without a sound fainted away. 

******* 

When Kate Christianson opened her eyes she found herself in 
a strange room lying Upon a truckle bed. She started up with 
a cry, and gazed with a terrified look around her. 

The next moment she sank back moaning upon the bed. She 
was alone; the room, a wretched garret, was strange to her; ic 
was evidently night, for a guttering rushlight burned dimly on 
the table, and all the house was hushed. 

What had happened ? She could not tell, but something ter- 
rible must have taken place, for her brain was throbbing, her lips 
and eyes burning feverishly, and her hand, which looked so 
white and thin, was clammy and cold, as if with the chilly 
touch of death. 

For a time she lay with her burning eyelids closed, and her 
poor weary overwrought brain trying to recall the past; then 
some movement attracted her attention, she opened lier eyes 
and looked around again. This time she saw that she was not 
alone. On a wicker arm-chair beside a smoldering fire a 
woman was seated. 

She had evidently been sle(3ping, but her face was now turned 
somewhat anxiously toward the bed. Their eyes met; she came 
over and took the girl’s wasted hand kindly in her own. 

“Where am I?” said Kate, faintly; then, overcome by her 
own weakness, she burst into tears. 

It was some time before she could calm herself again; but 
while she sobbed the woman patted her hand, and did her best 
to soothe her again to sleep. 

But Kate was too excited to rest; question after question 
came eagerly from her feverish lips, until at length she 
knew all. Yes, thus she learned that two days before the 
master of the garret had lifted her senseless form from the 
ground, had borne her to his room, and committed her to the 


80 


OOD AND THE HAN. 


care of his wife; that a few hours after a child had been born 
prematurely, that since that hour the mother, stricken with 
fever, had lain almost at the point of death. 

“ The child, the child!” gasped the agonized girl. The 
woman, mistaking her agonized cry, said softly: 

“Don’t grieve, poor wench, the poor little ba’rn is dead.” 

For one moment the girl’s parched, feverish lips opened to 
breathe a word of thankfulness to God; then, overcome by her 
own misery, she uttered a heart-breaking cry, and burst again 
into weary sobs and tears. 

Kate learned little more that night, for the woman, alarmed 
at her excessive grief, refused to speak again; she returned to 
her seat by the fire, and left Kate to lie and think over all that 
had taken place. What a night she passed! As every weary 
hour dragged by, the fever which had seized her seemed to in- 
crease. 

In the morning, the woman, going to the bedside, found that 
the fever had reached its height, and the poor patient was raving 
in wild delirium. 

And for several days more Kate Christianson was as one gone 
mad: she raved in the height of fever; then her feverishness 
abated, and her senses returned to her. Her child had been 
buried, and the people, grown 'veary of the mystery, were anx- 
iously inquiring who the unfortunate mother might be. 

“What is your name, wench? tell me, and I’ll write to 
your friends,” asked the woman for the twentieth time one 
day. 

“ I have no friends,” said Kate, wearily. “ I want to die!” 

Then she thought of her mother, of her brother, of the man 
who had brought all this sorrow upon her, and prayed again to 
die. But her prayers were vain — God had deserted her; she still 
lived, and her troubles grew. 

What could she do ? To stay there was .impossible, to return 
to her mother wa^ impossible; she resolved to seek the father of 
her child, and cast herself on his protection. To do this, she 
must escape alone; to reveal her plans would be to reveal her 
identity, to bring all her terrible secret to light, and call down 
shame and sorrow upon those she loved. 

She would tell no one of her wild desire; she would creep 
from the house at dead of night, and fade like an evil shadow 
from the place. Daylight died, and night came on; the invalid 
seemed better and inclined for sleep, and the poor woman who 
had attended her so kindly retired to get that rest of which she 
was herself in need. 

“ You shall write to my friends in the morning,” Kate had 
said. “ Prithee let me pass this night in peace!” 

“ In peace; nay, in this world there is no peace for me!” she 
murmured a few hours later, as she rose from her sick-bed and 
tremblingly drew on her clothes. 

It was several hours past midnight; every sound was hushed, 
all within the house were sleeping peacefully, as the sick girl, 
dragging her trembling limbs along the floor, descended the 
stairs and passed quietly from the house. 


OOD AND THE MAN. 


81 


There was a bolt to the door: with trembling hands she slid it 
back, and then, at the sound, stood shivering and listened. No 
one stirred. She opened the door stealthily, slipped out, and 
drew it to behind her. She stood in the empty street of 
the sleeping town, hesitating, bewildered, not knowing what 
to do. 

It was the dark hour that precedes the dawn, but the silver 
moonlight was lingering in placid places of the heavens. The 
air was very cold, for during the night there had been rain, and 
some was still falling in a tlain imperceptible mist. 

Kate looked wildly round her. The cool air came sweetly 
upon her fevered brow, the damp dew fell upon her loosenecl 
hair. AW seemed so still, so peaceful. As she paused in hesi- 
tation, all her past life came upon her as in a dream. Her eyes 
filled with tears. With trembling feet she turned her face to- 
ward home. 

Yes, she would go back. In the place where she had been 
hidden no one knew her, no one could follow. If she hastened, 
she might reach her native village before the world was well 
astir. And even if the news of her shame should follow her, 
what then? She would lie down and die in the old place, and 
they would place her in the little green churchyard, by her poor 
father’s side. 

******* 

In the light of a golden summer morning, pleasant and peace- 
ful after a night of rain, Priscilla S<dton rose and looked out of 
the little attic window of the cottage at Brightlinghead. The 
garden lay beneath, newly baptized in morning dew; and across 
green slopes beyond sparkled the innumerable laughter of the 
sea. She opened the casement; the scent of flowers crept 
sweetly in. She listened, and heard birds singing, as if it were 
the world’s first day. 

Coming down into the little parlor, she found her father al- 
ready up, and awaiting her. They knelt down in loving prayer 
together, as their custom was, and then began their simple 
morning meal. After breakfast Priscilla walked out into the 
garden, leaving the blind man seated in his chair, in those holy 
meditations which were necessary to him as the very breath of 
life. 

As she moved in the sunshine, plucking a flower here and 
there, the garden gate opened, and Richard Orchardson ap- 
peared. He was booted and spurred, and carried in his hand a 
nosegay and a basket of choice fruit from the manor garden. 

“I am an early visitor,” he said, smiling. “ My father hath 
sent me over wdth these nectarines for Mr. Sefton, and some 
rare flowers for yourself. I was bidden also to ask you to be- 
come our guests for a few days up at the Willows.” 

“ My father is within,” returned Priscilla, with a certain cold- 
ness. “ Will you come and speak to him ?” 

“ Presently,” said Richard, lingering by her side. “What a 
fair morning!” 

“Yes.” 

Her manner seemed unusually thoughtful and reserved, and 


82 


GOD AND THE MAN, 


the young man at once noticed the change. Instead of looking 
him in the face as was her wont, she kept her gaze averted, and 
moved slowly toward the cottage. 

“ Do not go in yet,” said Richard, quickly. “ I wish to speak 
to you.” 

Without speaking, she turned, and for the first time looked 
him in the face. She saw something there which caused a 
shadow to fall upon her own. 

“ My father is waiting for me,” she said, embarrassed, but not 
agitated, as she had beeu when she saw the same expression in 
the fane of Christian Christianson. 

“ Pray listen a moment,” persisted Richard. “I have ridden 
over on purpose to see you. I must speak to you, alone.” 

Seeing now that it was inevitable, she paused, but the shadow 
remained upon her. 

“ Dear Priscilla — nay, suffer me to call you so — wlien you 
know what hath brought me, perchance you will pity me; with- 
out your pity, surely 1 am a lost man. Since you came hither 
to Brightlinghead, there hath been but one thought in my . soul 
— how I might make myself worthy in your eyes. I have 
spoken with ray father, and he approves what I am about to 
say to you. Priscilla, will you become my wife?” 

Even now her color did not change, though she looked nerv- 
ously upon the ground. Encouraged by her silence, which he 
misconstrued, he took her hand, and proceeded in a strain of 
greater confidence and gallantry. 

“ Svveetheart. I am sure you could not have misconceived me. 
The face is a tell-tale, and sure mine hath betrayed me from 
the first. Nay, did I not hint the truth before, though my 
sweet was too roguish to understand! Let me speak to your 
father straight, and tell him that I have won your heart.” 

“ Nay,” returned Priscilla, “ for it is not true.” 

Richard still kept her hand. 

“You will not refuse me, Priscilla. I am the squire’s son, 
and though I say it, shall be a rich man. I know you are poor 
in the world’s goods (here he watched her keenly, to see the 
effect of his words), “ but in you I shall have a treasure far sur- 
passing gold, xlnd you shall be a great lady. There shall ever 
be maids at your elbow, horses for you to*ride. a grand house 
for great company, and troops of gentle friends.” 

“ Such things are not for me,” said Priscilla simply. “ Prithee 
speak of it no more.” 

“ Perchance you will cliide me because I am so. bold, but it is 
your heavenly beauty that leads me on. Sweetheart, I love you! 
— ay, more than all the w orld.” 

As he spoke, Priscilla started and uttered a half-terrified cr}'. 
Surprised, he turned and followed the direction of her eyes. At 
the same moment he heard a low voice, the sound of which 
chilled the blood in his veins. 

“ Richard!” 

On the garden -path before them stood a woman, wild- eyed, 
ghastly pale, woe- begone, her raiment soaked with the night's 
rain, her hair falling loose upon her shoulders. As she utten-d 


GOD AND THE MAN. 


83 


his name, wild tears ran down her cheeks, and she fell moaning 
upon her knees, and stretching out her arms to him in wild 
entreaty. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

KATE COMES HOME. 

The young couple stood petrified, but the w^oman, after ut- 
tering that terrible cry. fell prostrate upon the ground. 

Priscilla rushed forward, raised her gently, gave one look into 
the pale, sorrow-stricken face, and then turned to Richard Or- 
chardson. 

“Who is she?'’ she asked; “she named your name, and 
seemed to know you. And I — I seem to have seen your face 
before. You know her, friend ?” 

He w’as standing upon the spot where Priscilla had stood two 
minutes before, but he had almost turned his back upon the 
two girls; he stood so. as he answered Priscilla’s question. 

“Yes, I know her well,” he said; “we have known each 
other since we w’ere children. Her name is Kate Christianson; 
she is a daughter of Dame Christianson of the Fen Farm.” 

“ Kate Christianson! — his sister Kate — ah, I remember.” 

Richard Orchardson turned now — turned and looked at Pris- 
cilla with quite a new light in his eyes, and the terror which a 
few moments before had filled his heart was replaced by a 
feeling of bitter irritation. The tone in which Priscilla had 
uttered those few words told him something. She had been 
deaf to his proposal because, forsooth, her heart had been 
turned toward another man. and that man was his bitterest foe. 

Priscilla, meanwhile, for the time unconscious of the pres- 
ence of her would-be lover, was still bending over the form of 
the unconscious girl, chafing her hands, smoothing back her 
hair, and allowing the sun to shine upon her face. 

Then, as there were still no signs of returning consciousness, 
she turned to Richard again. 

“ Will you help me to bear her into the house ?” she said. “ I 
thank the Lord who did direct her footsteps to our door.” 

For a time the man remained silent, utterly at a loss what to 
say or do. He was like one- tossed hither and thither on con- 
flicting tides, each one of which seemed likel}^ to ingulf him. 
Of the strange turn of events which had brought Kate Chris- 
tianson to her present pitiable state he knew almost nothing, 
neither could he guess the motive which had Jed the girl to 
Priscilla Sefton’s door. But of this he felt certain, that should 
she be carried into the house, and there recover her conscious- 
ness, his cause with Priscilla would be lost. What to do? how 
to avoid the catastrophe? His heart sickened within him, and 
he inwardly prayed that every breath which the unconscious 
woman drew might be her last. 

But Priscilla awaiting his answer, presently he spoke. 

“Sweetheart,” he said, “your kind disposition doth you 
wrong. Such women as that are best outside your door. Take 


84 


GOD AND THE MAN. 


my advice, send her to the Fen Farm, and when she passeth be- 
yond the sunshine of this spot, think of her no more. 

“ Why do you speak so?” asked Priscilla. 

“Because I know ’tis sacrilege for one roof to cover you 
two.” 

“Sacrilege! nay, then I tell you, ’tis my duty to attend, to 
such sore trouble as this — a Christian’s help is given where it is 
needed; the prosperous and the happy do not call us, but we 
listen for the voices of those in distress. What saith the Lord? 

‘ Come unto me all ye that are weary and heavy-laden, and I 
will give you rest.’ Therefore, good Master Richard, I prithee 
call my father, who will give me what help I need.” 

But Orchardsou did not seem inclined to do that. 

“Forgive me, Priscilla.” he said: “I was wrong and you 
have put me right. You will always keep me right, sweet- 
heart, and I would do anything to please you.” 

So saying, he lifted the unconscious Kate in his arms and car- 
ried her into the h©use; when he had placed her upon the bed 
he turned again to Priscilla. 

“ Swetheart.” he said, softly, “ can I do more for thee? In 
sooth, though I have no cause to love the name of Christianson, 

I feel grieved for the poor wretch, and would gladly serve her. 
’Tis a sad story, now I remember. The maiden disappeared 
from her home several days ago, and all at the Fen Farm be- 
lieve her dead.” 

Priscilla did not reply; she was bending over the sick girl, 
trying to find some glimmer of returning consciousness; but 
none came. She lay like one dead. 

Priscilla raised her head. 

“You have your horse at the gate, good friend ?” 

“Yes.” 

“ Then you will gallop away with two letters from me — one 
for the doctor, one for Christian Christianson.” 

The young squire’s face reddened; he vvas about to give a 
hasty refusal, when he suddenly checked himself, and said: 

“ Whatsoever you wish. I will do.” 

Priscilla immediately proceeded to scribble off two notes. , 
The one to Christian ran as follows: 

“ My dear Friend, — Your sister lieth under this roof griev- 
ously sick. An hour ago, as I stood at the gate, giving good- 
morning to young Squire Orchardson, a weary woman stag- 
gered up and fell at my feet. The young squire, recognizing her 
sooner than I, told me lier name; he carried her into the house 
for me, and is now waiting to be the bearer of two letters; one 
to the doctor, and this one to yourself. You will come, good 
friend, as soon as you receive this; and in the meantime I shall 
do all in my power for the poor sick maid. 

“ Your faithful friend. 

“Priscilla Sefton.” 

Priscilla, while sealing this letter, felt that she had phrased 
it well. The wish had of late become strong within her to be 
the peacemaker between these two men, for to her gentle nature 


85 


GOD AND THE MAN, 

tlie hatred which they bore to one another was errible beyond 
endurance. So in dispatching this missive Priscilla thought 
that by judiciously mentioning the service of young Orchard- 
son she would at least gain for him his enemy’s thanks. 

As Orchardson took the lines, he was gratified at receiving a 
sweet word of thanks from Priscilla, and an earnestly ex- 
pressed hope that she would soon see him again. 

“ For of course,” she added quickly, suddenly remembering 
their conversation of a few hours before, “ you will be curious 
to hear how the poor maid goeth on.” 

“ I shall be very curious” returned Orchardson, as bending 
over her hands, he pressed them affectionately, then took his 
leave. 

He delivered the doctor’s note himself— the other he gave to a 
boy; for much as he wished to serve Priscilla, he could not 
bring himself to ride upas a messenger to the Fen Farm. 

Having done his work be rode leisurely homeward. 

He was in anything but a comfortable frame of mind, though 
he had decided what must be his own course of action. So far, 
he had been fortunate, the girl had remained senseless; but 
sooner or later she must recover, and then, perhaps, Priscilla 
might learn all. At first he had thought of communicating 
with Kate trying to insure her silence; but now he had decided 
upon a better plan. She had no witnesses; if she accused, he 
could deny, nay, more, he could put this forth as another evi- 
dence of the wish of the Christiansons to disgrace him and drag 
him down. 

On reaching home he found his father about to sally forth; at 
sight of his son’s face the old man turned and re-entered the 
house. 

“Well, lad?” he questioned, laying his hand affectionately on 
Richard’s shoulder, “ how sped thy wooing?” 

“ I am balked again by a Christianson.” 

“Curse them — curse the whole breed!” 

“So say I, father; Priscilla was gentle as a lamb until his 
runaway sister staggered up and fell at her feet. Then her 
heart melted, and she forgot me; bade me help the girl into her 
house, and then dispatched a message for her brother. My suit 
will never thrive with Priscilla till the Christiansons are away.” 

For three days young Orchardson nursed his wrath against the 
Christiansons, but mostly against Kate: and during the whole 
of that time he was in a state of terror as co how matters would 
end between Priscilla and himself. On his own course of action 
he had, as we have said, fully decided, but for a time he shrunk 
from the idea of meeting the girl, and commencing the false 
tales which he knew he should have to tell. 

But gradually he grew accustomed to the thought of them, 
and on the evening of the fourth day he had conquered himself 
sufficiently to walk down to the cottage at Brightlandhead, os- 
tensibly with the intention of inquiring how tlie poor outcast 
fared, but really to discover how much of her sad story had been 
told to Priscilla, 

It was long past sunset, the evening prayer- meeting at the 


GOD AND THE MAN. 


fottage was over, the small congregation had dispersed, and 
Priscilla herself, a light shawl thrown over her head, was walk- 
ing up and down the road in the fast-gathering twilight. 

She was much paler and more pensive-looking than usual, but 
when her eyes fell upon the young man her face brightened 
with a strange smile. 

He saw at once that he was safe. “ Good Mr. Richard, you 
are welcome,’’ she said, “ I was thinking of thee!” 

The young man’s heart grew light. He kissed the hand which 
she gave him, then laid forth a posy of his father’s choicest 
flowers. 

“ I have come to inquire for your patient.” he said quietly, 
“ and my father hath sent these flowers to cheer thee in the sick- 
room.” 

“Your father is too good. When you return, thank him for 
me.” 

And she took the flowers, and held them to her sweet face. 

For the moment he felt impelled to give an affectionate reply, 
but remembering that to be too precipitate might mean the loss 
of all, he contented himself wuth watching Priscilla’s beautiful 
pale face as it bent above the nosegay to inhale the posy’s fra- 
grant breath. 

“ They are very sweet,” said Priscilla, softly, “ but indeed I 
have no sick-room to put them into now. Our little maid hath 
gone away.” 

“Gone away?” echoed Orchardson, and for a moment there 
arose within him a wild hope that Kate Christianson might be 
dead. 

But Priscilla quietly replied: 

“ Yes, so soon as she was strong enough to move, her brother 
took her home.” 

After that they both remained silent. Orchardson longed yet 
dreaded to hear more, and Priscilla knew not what to say. Her 
scheme of becoming peacemaker between these two strange 
men had completely fallen through. But since she could not 
make peace she would not try to create a stronger hatred. She 
would never mention to Orchardson how Christian, on hearing 
that the man had dared to touch his sister, even in kindness, 
had shown ungovernable wrath, and had in Ids frenzy even ac- 
cused Priscilla of wishing to humiliate him before his foe. 

He had succeeded in arousing the gentle maiden’s wrath at 
last. But the anguish which had followed her wrath told her 
only too plainly the state of her heart. 

“I will go away,” she had said to herself. “We have no 
longer any mission here. Tt requires a stronger will than mine, 
to lead these men from the errors into which they are falling. 
God is far-seeing, and he may choose some other means of bring- 
ing them right at last.” 

“ Will you come in?” asked the girl quietly; but Orchardson 
shook his head. 

“ Not to-night, Priscilla. If I may I will come again. Good- 
night, and may God bless you!” 

He uttered the benediction with strange earnestness, then he 


GOD AND THE MAN. 


87 


bent again and kissed her hands. For that night at least he 
spoke no word of love, but walked away with a strange look of 
relief, like one reprieved from death. 


CHAPTER XTV. 

THE WIDOW’S CUP IS FULL. 

Richard Orchardson might breathe in peace. Kate Chris- 
tianson. in recovering from her swoon, said nothing to incrim- 
inate him or herself, but answered all questions with vague 
words and moans. Then Christian Christianson had indeed 
taken his poor sister home, and the shock of the removal had 
again overpowered her, and for many hours she lay like one 
stricken unto death. 

The mother and brother watched her; each looking, wonder- 
ing, but saying nothing. Not even to each other in the silence 
of the night had tliey spoken of the terrible fear which was 
heavy upon the hearts of both. 

For a tune they thought that the girl would die, and the 
mother in her anguish and suspicion guessed at times that it 
might be better so; but God willed it otherwise; Kate gradually 
recovered — arose from bed, the mere ghost of wliat she once 
had been, and again resumed her place in tiie house. This was 
a hard time for Kate, for now that her delirium had passed 
away, Dame Christianson, unable longer to restrain her anxiety, 
began to question her daughter as to the past. 

But Kate liad the tenacity and reticence of some otherwise 
feeble natures. She would say nothing. She gazed into her 
mother’s stern, cold face with pitiful pleading, and when pressed 
closely, fell into violent paroxysms, and in her anguish wildly 
prayed that she might die. 

So it came to pass one evening that Dame Christianson, sit- 
ting by the fire with the old Bible upon her knee, looked at the 
trembling, cowering figure before her, and resolutely steeled 
her heart. 

“Thou wilt not speak, thou wilt tell me naught,” she said, 
“ but for all that I fear that thou art not fit to share this roof 
with righteous^ folk. If it cometh to pass that thou hast brought 
shame upon our name, I will turn thee like a dog from our door!” 

“ Mother, mother!” cried the trembling girl. 

But the stern old woman held up her hands. 

“ Call me not mother till I hear thy tale. Perchance thy sin 
is not so great as I deem it, but since thou triest to break my 
lieart, do not name my name. Here in thy father’s house is food 
and shelter, but while thou hidest aught from me, thou art no 
child of mine!” 

So Kate sobbed and cried, and rocked herself in her agony of 
grief; the mother read the Bible, looking up now and again to 
watch the tear-stained face of her daughter, but neither spoke. 

When Christian came in from his work in the fields, she 
quietly did what work w^as required of her, then like a stricken 
hound she crept up to her room. As she was leaving the cham- 
ber for the night, Christian called her back, 


88 


GOD AND THE MAN. 


“Good-night, Katie.” he said. 

The sound of the old childish name, spoken so fondly by her 
stern brother, was too much for poor Kate to bear. Pausing, 
she held up her sunken cheek for her brother's kiss, then, with 
one last look into her mother’s stern face, she crept up-stairs, 
and having gained her room, sank on the floor in passionate 
tears. 

When she was gone and the door was closed, the mother and 
son spake no word. Christian, whose heart had melted for a 
moment at sight of his sister’s silent pain, had far different 
thoughts to occupy his brain. Only two hours before he had 
met Priscilla on the sands, and received her last farewell. 

Yes, Priscilla was gone from Brightlinghead; she had come 
like a spirit of light and love, to bring gladness to the hearts of 
many, but now the Divine Hand which ruled her life pointed 
onward, and again she followed her blind father forth into the 
wilderness of the world. 

Well, it was some comfort to Christian that she had wished to 
say “ Good-bye”— th, at she had given him a few words of coun- 
sel, and expressed a hope that they might some day meet again. 

“We have both our work to do,” she said, sweetly, “you as 
well as I. God give you strength to do it manfully and well, 
dear Christian.” 

“ Priscilla,” he cried, wildly, “before you go, hearken again!” 

But Priscilla put up her hand. 

“ Nay, we have both said o’ermuch already. Good-bye, and 
may God bless you, dear friend.” 

“ God’s blessing comes to me through you only; when you 
are gone it will be to me as if I had been plunged into the dark- 
est depths of hell!” 

“ Alas! say not so.” 

“ But I say so, in good sooth. Give me some hope, Priscilla! 
Leave me not to w aste and die. With your help I might be- 
come a better man.'’ 

The girl sliook her head sadly. 

“I have tried,” she murmured faintly; “and I have failed. 
My place is wuth my father, and even if I were free, I 
should fear your disposition. Good-bye, dear Christian! Per- 
chance we may meet again some day, soon, and till then, re- 
member me!” 

With such w’ords upon her lips, and a calm, placid smile upon t 
her face, she had faded from his sight. 

The memory of tliat interview was ever in his mind, the light 
of the sweet smile ever before his eyes, making the w’orld seem • 
brighter to him and softening his heart to all mankind. 

To- night, particularly, Priscilla’s influence was strong upon 
him, as he sat looking at his mother’s stern, cold face, and think- - 
ing of his heart-broken sister. 

‘•Perchance she is too hard,” he thought; “ perchance we are 
both too hard. Poor Kate! if she hath sinned she suffers sorely.” 

A little later, when he went up-stairs, he looked into his 
sisters room. Kate’s passionate pain had passed awav; pale and 
exhausted, she sat now upon the bedside. 


GOT) AND THE MAN, 


80 


“ Kate, my lass,” said Christian, going up to her and lifting 
one of her wasted hands, “the mother’s heart is sore because 
she loveth you — remember that; maybe the soreness will pass 
away, and she'll come right again. She hath had overmuch 
trouble, Kate, and it makes her hard sometimes; but she loves 
you; nay, we all love you.” 

The girl said nothing; with the docility and timidity of a poor 
dumb animal, she pressed her cold, trembling lips to her 
brother’s hand, and sank back again upon the bed. 

But when he was gone, and she was alone again, alone with 
her load of sorrow, wliich was surely breaking her heart, she 
moaned aloud in anguish; 

“ If he knew, if he only knew! would he not curse me as my 
mother would curse me? would he not drive me forth as she 
would drive me forth ? Yea, even although it sent me to my 
death. What shall I do? Dear God, what shall I do ? I can- 
not live like this, I cannc^t go out into the world. If only I 
could die!” 

She wiped away her tears, tried to calm her ever-beating 
heart, and sat down to think. What could she do? Nothing, 
nothing! Confess to her mother that she had grievously sinned, 
and that Richard Orchardson. the mortal enemy of their house, 
had won her love and afterward brought her to shame? Nay, 
for then with a mother’s curse she would be driven forth to be- 
come a hopeless outcast on the pitiless street. 

Suddenly, in the midst of her blackest despair, came a ray of 
hope, a ray so bright that for the moment the dead light in the 
girl’s eye kindled into something of its old brightness. She 
thought of Priscilla Sefton, the blind missionary’s daughter; 
she was known to be good and kind, she must have guessed 
part of the pitiful story— she should learn the rest, and perhaps 
her good counsel might bring the poor sufferer some peace. 
Yes, Kate resolved to seek Priscilla on the morrow; and with 
that thought to comfort her she sank to rest, little dreaming 
what new trials the morrow was to bring forth. After a 
troubled night Kate Christianson arose, weary and unrefreshed. 
Though it was still early, yet the gray light of dawn was steal- 
ing into the house. Christian was already afield, but the dame 
was still in her room. Dressing herself with somewhat more 
than ordinary care, Kate crept down-stairs, and set herself to 
perform her few household duties. Having finished these, she 
hastily drew on her bonnet and shawl and left the house. 

She was obliged to go thus early, for in five minutes more her 
mother would be down, and would be sure to ply her with a 
series of questions as to her going forth. But now that she was 
free and fairly on her road her heart turned sick within her. 
’Twas such a sorry errand! Well, it was part of her punish- 
ment, and as such it must be bravely borne. 

Nevertheless she lingered on her road, choosing the quiet un- 
frequented paths, and withdrawing aside w^henever a human 
soul came by, so that when she arrived at Brightlinghead the 
day was well broken. What was Kate’s surprise, however to 


90 


QOD AND THE MAN 


find the cottage door closed, the blinds all drawn, and no sign 
of life about it anywhere! 

She walked resolutely up to the door and knocked. No an- 
swer. She knocked again: the sound of her knuckles on the 
door reverberated through the house, but brought no sign of 
life. A.t this moment an old coast-guardsman happened to 
pass by. 

“What be you wanting there, mistress?” he asked gruffly, 
and Kate meekly rejilied: 

“ I came to seek the preacher’s daughter.” 

“ Mistress Sefton ? She be gone away.” 

“ Gone!” 

“ Ay, traveled away with her father. They are wanderers 
always, it seems, and never bide one place long.” 

“ Then they are not coming back ?” 

“ Nay; leastways not for many a day!” 

Trembling, and more sick at heart than ever, Kate moved 
from the door, and began to retrace her steps along the road. 

What to do now? There was only one plan left, and that was 
to seek out Eichard Orchardson. That he had ceased to care for 
her, Kate knew only too well; her only hope was that her sorry 
state might at least arouse his pity. But how to find him, how 
to speak with him ? She might wait all day and never see him, 
and she dared not go to the Willows. Dared not? — nay, but she 
would! Trouble had made her desperate. If she sent to him he 
would avoid her — of that she felt sure: the only way was to 
bring him right before her face. Full of this new determina- 
tion, yet shrinking fearfully from the task she had to perform, 
Kate drew her shawl more tightly about her shoulders, and 
looked around with a shiver. The day was well advanced, but 
it was cold and dark and sunless. She walked on and on till 
she was some distance from the willows, but she knew there 
was life there, for she could see the smoke issuing from the 
chimneys, and she could hear the echoing bark of the mastiffs 
which were always chained in tlie yard. With flushed cheek 
and wildly palpitating heart, Kate walked on, never once 
pausing to think until she came to the lodge gate. 

Then good fortune attended her; for she met one of the grooms 
coming out of the gate. 

“ Will you tell me,” she asked, in a low, trembling voice, “ if 
Master Richard is at home?” 

“ Master Richard ? Nay!” 

“ Where is he? ’ 

“ Don’t ’ee know he’s gone away to London ?” 

“ Gone away!” 

“ Ay, went away a week ago, and he bean’t likely to be back 
here again till winter-tide.” 

The man passed on, and left Kate standing cold, tremblins, 
and speechless. 

As Kate Christianson returned toward the Fen Farm, faint 
and despairing— for she now felt that Richard had abandoned 
her forever, and that there was no hope for her in this world — 
she saw before her the figure of a man. 


GOT) AND THE MAN. 


01 


He was walking? slowl}’ toward the farm, on the road which 
led to the sea, and though he was too far from her to be dis- 
tinctly recognized, she knew that he was a stranger. Now and 
then he paused and looked arouud him, with the perplexe*! air 
of one to whom the surrounding scene was unfamiliar. 

Not wishing to come face to face with any person, she held 
back upon the road, suffering him to pass on out of sight. List- 
lessly and sadly she wandered down to the meie-side, and looked 
at the dark water wearily, as she had looked upon it that black 
night before her child was born. Very still and peaceful it 
looked, in the gray light of the windless, sunless day. Over the 
shore where she stood several sea-gulls were flying and uttering 
shrill cries. She stood listening in a dream. 

Presently she turned from the water -side and walked toward 
the farm. As she did so, she saw approacljing her, with rapid 
strides, the same man she had previously seen before her on the 
road. 

It was impossible to avoid him now; so she pushed on past 
him, averting her face as she came near. 

As she came up he looked at her keenly, and made a sign of 
recognition; but she noted nothing of this, and was passing 
rapidly by, when his voice arrested her: 

“Stop, mistress!” 

Slie turned trembling and looked at him. He was a middle- 
aged, countrified fellow, dressed like a small farmer, in coat and 
knee-breeches; and his feet and legs were dirty, as if with a long 
tramp on the highway. 

“Don’t 'ee know me, mistress?” he continued, with a forbid- 
ding smile. “ Well, some folk have short memories. But I 
know thee, and by the same token I ha’ found thee. Mv name’s 
Joe Brittle well, and I come fro’ Harringford, where thy poor 
^ ba’rn was born.” 

Poor Kate uttered a terrified cry, and clutched him by the 
arm. 

“Oh, speak low! speak low! If they should hear!” 

“Nay,” said the man, sternly, “it be too late to speak low 
now, for the mischief’s out. 1 ha’ spoken wi’ thy mother and 
wi’ thy brother, up yonder at the farm.” 

“You have not told them? No, no!” 

“ Bide a bit, and listen. When \mu did slip away from my 
dame’s care, with ne’er so much as ‘Thank you, dame,’ ora 
parting gift, we vvas sore puzzled, and angry enou’ at thy ingrati- 
tude; for there was all thy keep to pay for, and the lying in, and 
the buryin' beside, for the parish would not help us a groat. 
‘Never mind, dame,’ says I; ‘ I’ll soon find the wench’s friends, 
an’ I had only a bit of a clew.’ Well, searching in thy cham- 
ber, I finds a ring, a leetle gold keepsake ring, and inside that 
ring was printed thy mother’s name. So we worked it out to- 
gether, my dame and I, and I vowed the first free day! had to 
come along and speak wi’ thy folk; and so I come.” 

Dazed and terrified beyond measure, Kate looked at the man, 
scarcely hearing the words that he spoke. Her secret was out 


GOD AND THE MAN. 


n 

then, once and forever; and by that time, perchance, her moth- 
er’s door was already closed against her. 

“Did you say you* had spoken with my mother?” she cried, at 
last. 

“ Ay, marry; and ha’ given her back her gold ring.” 

“ And you told her— nay, nay, you did not tell her— you 
would not be so cruel — you ” 

“ I told the dame o’ thy lying-in at our house, and of the 
buryin’, and that we were poor folk, and could not stand to lose 
thy'keep and thy lodging. Then thy good brother gave me four 
silver crowns, and pushed me fro’ the door. ‘ Keep this all to 
thyself,’ says he, ‘ and one day soon I’ll ride o’er and talk wi’ 
the dame at home.’ ‘Nay, never fear,’ says I, ‘T can keep my 
mouth shut;’ and I corned away.” 

Kate stood moaning and ringing her hands; then, with a sud- 
den impulse, she turned and began walking rapidly away from 
the farm. 

The man kept at her side. 

“Don’t ’ee take on so, my poor wench,” he said gruffly. 

Tbou’rt not the first nor the last as has made a fool o’ thysen’ 
wi’ no help fro’ })arson; bless ’ee, they thinks no more o’ that in 
our good town than they does up in Lunnon. Thy folk will 
forgive thee, never fear!” 

“ Never, never!” cried Kate. 

“ Who’s thy ba’rn’s feyther, tell me that! Won’t he stand by 
thee? He will, if it be true, as I ha’ heard, he be a gentleman 
born.” 

Kate started, with a wild glance at the man. “ Who told 
thee he was a gentleman?” she asked. 

“ No man, mistress; but my good dame did gather it fro’ thy 
wild talk when thou wast lying-in. Nay, I can tell thee thy 
gallant’s name — ’twas ‘ Richard, Richard,’ ever on thy tongue; 
and there were another name, too, a long name, beginning with 
a round ‘O^’; and I know who owns it, though I be a stranger 
hereabout.” 

As the man spoke, Kate heard footsteps behind her, and 
turning quickly, she saw her brother running rapidly. Di- 
rectly her eyes fell upon his face she saw that he knew, or 
guessed, everything. His eyes looked terrible, and his teeth 
were set together, 

“ Christian!” she cried imploringly. “ Brother dear!” 

“Nay,” answered Christian, in a low voice, “you have no 
brother now. You have chosen between us and shame, and we 
have done with you forever. I come to you from my mother — 
to tell you never to darken her door again.” 

Kate answered with a moan, hanging her head in hopeless ac- 
quiescence. 

“God knows our lot was enough,” proceeded Christian. 
“God kni)ws our mother’s cup of grief was full enough, with- 
out this sorrow. But there — I waste words, ’tis too late for 
words now. All I want now from you, Kate Christianson, is 
the villain’s name.” 

“ Oh, Christian, I cannot speak it! Do not ask me!” 


GOD AND TUB MAN, 93 

He fixed his eyes terribly upon lier, and took her by the wrist. 
She did not shrink or cry; he might have killed her jast then, 
for all she cared. 

“ No need to speak,” he said; “I know it, and yet, I would 
have it from your own lips. Eichard Orchardson is the father 
of thy dead child ? Answer — yea or nay ?” 

She did not answer in words, but her face spoke plainly 
enough. Christian threw her from him, and turned away. 

“That is all I sought to know. I am content.” 

“ Oh, Christian, you will not harm him! I — I love him! Per- 
chance he will make amends.” 

He might have struck her now, so much did her last words 
madden him, had not the man interposed. 

“ Nay, master, keep thy temper! Perchance, as the poor wench 
saith, the gentleman will make amends.” 

Christian looked at the speaker for a moment with the ferocity 
of a wild beast; then, shaking him off contemptuously, again 
approached his sister. 

“ You shall not starve. No sister of mine shall starve; go with 
this man, and he will shelter you till I have settled with our 
mother what to do. But you must not come back — remember 
that! You have no home now.” 

“ Yes, Christian,” said poor Kate, faintly; and without an- 
other word Christian walked rapidly away. 

They stood on the road watching his figure until it disappeared. 
Then the man turned to Kate, who was sobbing bitterly, and 
said: 

“ Take comfort, wench. Thy folk will forgive thee sure enow, 
an’ you gi’e ’em time; for after all, ’twas human nature. Come 
home along o’ me.” 

******* 

Sad and sick at heart, Christian returned homeward. The 
events of that morning had come like a thunder clap, leaving 
him no time to think or plan. Had he yielded to his own natural 
impulse, he would have led his penitent sister back, for be loved 
her dearly; but all pity, all compunction, all natural affection, 
was crushed beneath the terrible, unbearable weight of one 
thought — that his sister’s betrayer was Richard Orchardson. 

It was almost too much to bear. By what cruel fatality could 
it be that the Orchardsons were destined, at every important 
turn of his days, to shadow and blacken his being? First, there 
were the old traditional wrongs, bred in the wild past and abid- 
ing in the blood; then, there was his father’s death, caused, di- 
rectly or indirectly, by an Orchardson; again, the family ruin 
and his mother’s despair; and last of all, horrible beyond meas- 
ure, and in all humanity unbearable, this betrayal of his too 
foolish, feeble, and loving sister. Yes, the cup was indeed full 
to overflowing, and all his soul now was set on some desperate 
revenge. 

To add to his sad misery, he knew that Richard Orchardson 
was just then far beyond his reach, pouring his poisoned words, 
possibly, into the pure ears of Priscilla Sefton. 

This last thought was wildest of all. Unable to bear its horri- 


94 OOD AND THE MAN. 

ble sug-gestions, he hurried across the marsh, and approached 
Fen Farm. 

The hall door stood wide open, and the house was quite silent. 
He entered quickly, and passing into the sitting-room, saw liis 
mother sitting quietly there, in her old attitude, the Bible by 
her side. 

“ Well, mother, I have seen her,” he cried, entering the room, 
“and. alasi she hath confessed.” 

There was no reply. The widow sat nerveless in her chair, 
with her eyes fixed on vacancy, and one outstretched hand on 
the open Bible. The faint light came through the heavily cur- 
tained window, and touched her pale face and snow-white hair. 

Christian approached quickly, stooped down before her, and 
uttered a terrified cry. 

She was dead in her chair. 


CHAPTER XV. 

THE DEAD WOMAN. 

So Christian fell at once into that great blackness where the 
atheist lies, with eyes averted from heaven and his forehea<l 
pressed into the hard earth. By no intellectual process, by no 
succession of bitter doubts and ruthless syllogism, but simply 
through the utterances of moral despair, there was forced qpon 
his soul the consciousness that the world is without God, and 
that those who doubted God’s very existence were in the right. 
If there were a God indeed, if the gentle Providence of the 
preacher were a fact or a possibility, such things could never 
have been, that at least seemed clear. Or if God existed, be 
must be on the side of evil: cruel, pitiless, incomprehensible, 
unblessing, and unblessed. All was blind fate; anarchy sub- 
sisting on the very shadow of death. 

Feeling this, in all the tumult of his wild grief, he sat and 
looked in the eyes of the dead woman, not yet closed reverently, 
but fixed in horrible contemplation of some sight of terror 
which only dead eyes see; sat and gazed into her eyes and held 
her clay-cold hand till his own fingers felt like ice, and the 
chill of the grave was in his heart. Hours passed thus. Night 
and death were in the house, with no sound, no stir. 

At last he rose, lifted the lamp, and held it close to his 
mother’s marble face. Ah I what a record of hate and pain was 
written there! 

Tlie face was fixed in pallor, the eyes were blank, but the 
weary lines and furrows still remained, and the brows were 
knitted, and the poor thin hair, parted neatly over the blue- 
veined temples, kept its snow. 

“ Mother! mother!” he moaned; but no tears came. 

Then his eye fell upon the old Bible, still standing open by the 
corpse's side. 

With trembling hand he took it up, and turning to the fly-leaf, 
read his father’s name writ there, and his mother’s name, and 
poor Kate’s, and last his own; all their names, and the date of 
his father’s and mother's wedding, and the birthdays of the 


GOD AND THE MAN. 


95 


children, himself and the poor sister whom sorrow had un- 
timely tried. Of all that little household only one now remained 
alone in all the world. The rest had faded from him, like 
dreams that had scarcely been. 

His mind went back to the beginning of it all; to the dark 
feuds between the two houses, begun in blood before he came. 

He saw before him, as in a vision, the Orchardsons and Chris- 
tiansons of tradition, flitting to and fro amid the shadows of 
civil war and political change, armed, angry, always with their 
hands against each other. He remembered liow one wild deed 
had avenged another, how blow had met blow, how hate had 
met hate, until the men of both houses were more like devils 
than human beings. Then he bethought him of his father’s 
death -bed, and the black knavery, for so it seemed, which had 
hastened the poor man’s end; of the hour when, as a boy, he 
struck his enemy’s son, and saw him bleeding at his feet; of the 
lawsuit which followed, and beggared the household already 
poor. Last and saddest of all came the thought of his sister^s 
shame and his old mother’s broken heart; these, too, due to an 
Orchardson, the wickedest of the race. 

Amid these confused images and memories, one form moved 
like a celestial vision. At every confused vista of his mad rec- 
ollection there came up before him the image of Priscilla Sefton, 
with a look of beautiful admonition. She, too, had vanished 
from him, she who might have made amends for all, and turned 
his desolation into some abiding jieace. Ah! what would he 
not have given just then if she could have suddenly appeared 
before him to touch the rock of his hate with the wand of her 
divine compassion, and strike its stone to tears! 

As he thought and thought, the silence became too much for 
him to bear, and passing from his mother’s side, he went to the 
hall door and threw it open. 

It was a fine moonlight night of high wind; white clouds 
were scudding over the moon’s face, and the air was full of 
luminous phosphorescence. The fields and marshes lay so dis- 
tinct before him that he could trace the black lines of the ditches 
and hedges, and the patches of wood, as clearly as if it had been 
day. The wind was coming from seaward, and, listening in- 
tently, he could hear a sound which seemed like the moaning 
of the sea. 

Leaving the door open behind him, he passed out, and hastened 
across the fields to a neighboring cottage, where dwelt an aged 
couple who often did rough work about the farm. He knocked 
loudly, and the door was opened immediately by an old woman. 

“ My mother is dead,” he cried quickly. ‘‘ Haste to the house 
and watch by her till I return. I am going up to the village.” 

The woman uttered a wail; but before she could assail him 
with any questions, he was gone. 

A strange and sudden thought came over him, and with the 
fury of a man possessed by a demon, he rushed across the moon- 
lit fields. In a very short time he reached the village; but he 
did not stop there. Hastening on, he entered the long avenue 


96 


OOD AND THE MAN. 


leading to the Willows, gained the terrace, and pausing there, 
stood for some minutes panting for breath. 

The great house was in darkness; but at last he discovered 
light in one window, a window opening to the ground. With- 
out hesitating a moment, for his wild thought still possessed 
him, he pushed the window open, and entered^ There was a 
startled cry, a tall figure sprung up, and he found himself stand- 
ing face to face with Squire Orchard son. 

“ Help!” cried the squire in terror. “ Who’s there ?” 

“ It is Christian Christianson.” 

His voice was clear and distinct as he replied, and but for his 
death-white face and close-set lips he would have seemed free 
of all agitation. Years after that night he remembered his cool- 
ness and self-command, and wondered at them. He looked 
steadily in the squire’s face and waited. 

For a time the old man seemed overpowered by surprise, 
glanced nervously toward the bell -rope and at the door. 

“ What seek you here?” he said at last. “At this hour ” 

“ I have come to speak with your son.’' 

“ My son is far away,” answered the squire quickly. “ What 
do you want with him ?” 

“ IS ay,” said Christian, “the father will do as well. I have 
come to you from — from my mother.” 

His voice faltered a little at the name, but his eye still looked 
calmly in the other’s face. 

“Your mother wishes to see wicF’ cried Orchardson in com- 
plete astonishment. 

Christian answered with a curious inclination of the head. 

“If this is indeed so,” said the squire nervously, “if your 
mother has any word to say to me that may calm ill blood, God 
forbid that I should thwart her. I have heard of her trouble, 
not without compassion. Tell her I will come to her to-mor- 
row.” 

“ No, to-nightl to-night!” cried Christian in the same low 
voice; and he made a step as if to place his hand upon the old 
man’s arm. 

‘ ‘ To-night ? T mpossible !” 

“ I tell you I have come to you from her. Will you follow 
me ? or are you afraid ?” 

The old man drew himself up with a nervous shrug of the 
shoulders. 

“ Nay, I am not frightened so easily; and, indeed, what 
should I fear? But the request is so sudden, so- unreasonable.” 

“Come and see her,” persisted Christian, “ that is all I ask.” 

“ Nay, if the dame is ill ” 

“ Ay, sick unto death,” was the answer. “She is waiting for 
you: come!” 

The squire looked at his visitor again, and then, after a mo- 
ment’s hesitation, concluded to obey the strange summons. It 
did not seem altogether extraordinary that Dame Christianson, 
being possibly at the point of death, might have some last re- 
quest to make, or some final confession. With all his faults, and 
they were numerous, Orchardson had his human feelings; and 


GOD AND THE MAN. 


^7 


he would have been rather relieved than otherwise at a death- 
bed reconciliation with the woman who had suffered so much 
from his animosity. 

Wait here a moment,” he said, “ I will go with you.” 

So saying, he withdrew from the room; in a few* minutes ho 
returned, cloaked, and staff in hand. 

Could he have seen the strangely ominous smile which crossed 
Christian’s face as they passed out into the night, he would 
doubtless have hesitated before leaving his own door. 

Even as it was, he kept the young man well before him as they 
went, and held his hand underneath his cloak, gripping a 
weapon. For he, better than most men, knew the stuff’ of 
which his hereditary adversaries were made, and which ren- 
dered them capable of almost any deed of violence. 

Christian led the way so rapidly that the old man had some 
difficulty in keeping up with him. Once or twice the|latter 
paused for breath, or to put further questions, to all of which 
Christian answered in monosyllables. They passed through the 
slumbering village, along the brink of the mere, and at last they 
came in sight of the Fen Farm. 

Not far from the door, Orchardson again paused. 

“ If your mother is very sick,” he said, “ would it not be better 
to seek holy aid ? I should be glad to see some man of God by 
her bedside.” 

Without replying, Christian strode on to the farm door, 
pointed his companion in, and followed. But the room vvhere 
he had left his mother lying was empty, and the chair was 
vacant. He turned and led the way up-stairs. On the landing 
above he encountered the old man and woman bis neighbors, 
and spoke to them in a whisper. Then he pushed open a bed- 
room door and entered; Orchardson followed close behind. 

The room was dimly lit by an oil lamp, and on the bed 
stretched out in white, lay the corpse of Dame Christianson, 
stiff and cold. 

At sight of the bed and its ghastly occupant, the squire re- 
coiled and uttered a cry. In a moment Christian’s powerful 
hand clutched his arm like a vise. 

“ Look!” said Christian. 

“ Merciful Heaven, she is dead!” 

“ Yes, she is dead. I have brought you here to look upon 
your work; yours, and your son’s. You killed her. You killed 
my father first, then her. Nay, you shall not stir.” 

Pale as death, and trembling violently, Orchardson tried to 
shake himself free and leave the room. 

“She died to-night,” said Christian, “before I came to you; 
and she died cursing you. You did not hear her curse, but you 
shall hear mine. But, first, ty/iere is Richard, your son ? Tell 
me where he is, that I may follow him, and avenge, my mother 
and sister.” 

“What do you mean ? You talk like a madman. Let me 
leave this place.” 

“ Not till you tell me where to find your son.” 

“ He is far away,” 


08 


GOD AND THE MAN. 


“Where T 

“ I do not know. Release your hold, young man. You are 
profaning your mother’s death -chamber.” 

He had struck the right note at last. With a wild look at the 
dead figure on the bed, and a half -smothered sob, Christian led 
the old man from the room, and down-stairs into the hall; 
thence into the gloomy chamber, still lighted by a lamp, where 
his mother had died. 

By this time, Mr. Orchardson bad recovered his self-command. 
Looking keenly at Christian, and throwing into his manner a 
certain sympathy of superiority, he said with decision: 

“You have brought me here on a fool’s errand, but T am 
sorry for you. God knows I never wished any ill to your mother. 
I would have been lenient to you all, had you not driven me to 
desperation. Well, what more have you to say to me?” 

“Only this,” answered Christian; “if you were not an old 
man, you should not leave this house to night alive. But you 
may go. My reckoning shall be with your son.” 

Mr. Orchardson walked toward the door; then, as if impelled 
by a sudden thought, he turned quickly, and fixed his keen 
eyes on Christian’s face. 

“My son hath no reason to love you,” he said, quietly; “ but 
what evil hath he done you that you should hate him so?’ 

Christian did not answer, but met the old man’s eye with a 
look of terrible meaning. 

“My .^on is a gentleman,” continued Mr. Orchardson. “If 
you are thinking of the lying tales concerning him and your un- 
happy sister, let me tell you that he is innocent in that matter; 
nay, I have it from his own lips that he is innocent. And even 
were he guilty, as you believe, ’tis but a boy's folly, and he 
would make amends.” 

With the swiftness and ferocity of a wild animal, Christian 
crossed the room toward Mr. Orchardson, who shrunk back as 
if apprehending personal violence. But though his clinched 
hands vvere raised trembling in the air, he struck no blow. 

“Your son hath betrayed my sister, and killed my mother, 
who lieth yonder. No matter where he is hiding, I shall find 
him. No matter how long I may have to wait, I shall kill him; 
and I should kill you this night for the wrong 3 'ou did mv fa- 
ther, if I did not wish you to live to see mv vengeance on your 
son— to see him lying dead before you, killed bv my hand.” 

The old man shrunk back in horror, less at the words than at 
the expression on the speaker’s face. 

“ Wretch 1 ’ he gasped, “I will swear the peace against you. 
The law ” 

“ No law will save your son from me. It will be life for life, 
and may God’s curse blind me if I do not as I have sworn. Now 
begone!” 

Christian pointed to the door. With an exclamation, half 
angry, half fearful, Mr. Orchardson siirankaway before the out- 
stretched hand, and tottered out into the night, closing the hall 
door with a crash behind him. Reaching the gate beyond, he 
paused a moment, and saw the dim light coming from the 


GOD AND THE MAN, 


99 


tipper chamber where the woman was lying dead. Then, 
shocked and shaken by what he had heard and seen, he made 
his way slowly back to the Willows. 

Left to himself in the lower room, Oiristian fell into a chair, 
and hid his face in his hands. For nearly an hour he remained 
thus, a prey to his own wild thoughts; then he rose and 
walked back to the death-chamber, and knelt down by his 
mother’s side. 

******* 

Early the next morning, after a night of little sleep, Mr. 
Orchardson rose, and sitting down to his desk, wrote a long 
letter to his son. The letter contained much general matter; 
among it all, these warning words: 

“ All this is as I have told you. As you love me, keep away 
from the Willows yet awhile; for the fool is dangerous, and you 
can scarce guess the hate which breedeth in his simple heart. 
He layeth his sister’s flight and his mother’s death at our door. 
Look to yourself, my dear Dick, should you meet; but nay, you 
must not meet. And so with many fond wishes that your suit 
may thrive, farewell.” 

To make all safe and sure, Mr. Orchardson himself rode over 
to the neighboring town with the letter containing the above 
warning, and sent it by coach with his own hand. 

The next few days were a dreary blank to Christian Christian- 
son. Like one in a dream he heard folk coming and going; 
saw’ the wooden coffin borne in at the door; went up afterward 
and saw the waxen face lying at peace within it; sat for hours 
in the solemn room; finally, one sad day, heard the bell tolling, 
as he followed the hand -bearers with their black burden up the 
hillside, through the village, to the green churchyard. 

In a dream still, he stood in his black cloak, bareheaded, by 
the open grave, and heard the loose mold drip heavily on the 
coffin-wood. “ Ashes to ashes, dust to dust; in sure and certain 
hope of the resurrection to eternal life.” But no sweet pity, no 
thouglit of Divine resurrection, filled his soul. All his thoughts 
were turned one way — how to avenge his mother, how to set 
right his sister’s wrong by some sudden and desperate deed. 
Then he, too, might die— the sooner the better. 

His plans were all matured. To remain longer in the place of 
his birth was poison to him. He had an idea that all avoided 
him, that the story of his sister’s disgrace and the family dis- 
honor turned every heart against him; whereas, if the truth 
must be told, his own sullen suspicion and gloomy reticence 
were the causes which prevented the neiglibors from volunteer- 
ing help or sympathy. He hated the place, the familiar faces, 
the common air and sunshine. He would go away, never, per- 
haps, to return. 

Meantime, while preparing to depart, he inquired high and 
low, secretly but persistently, the whereabouts of Richainl Or- 
chardson; but no one could help him, Some said that the 
vmung man was upon the Continent; others that he ^vas some- 
where in the great city of London. Nor could he gain any tid- 
ings whatever of Priscilla and her father; they too had van- 


100 


GOD AND THE j\rAN. 


ished, without leaviug any trace. In. those days, when the 
daily newspaper was not thought of, and when the electric tele- 
graph was not even a dream, folk had not to wander far away 
if they wished to leave their old lives entirely behind them. 
Fifty miles was as far away, to all intents and purposes, as five 
times fifty is now. Tidings of those he sought were not likely 
to be brought to Christian’s ears. If he wished to find them, 
he must follow them out into the world, and trace them step by 
step. 

This, indeed, he resolved to do, being too fiercely impatient to 
wait until his enemy might return home. He scarcely knew 
his own heart yet — it was so clouded and tortured by passion; 
but in reality it was possessed by two spirits — one of hate, and 
the other of love. Come what might, he had resolved to avenge 
the family, and to have it out wdth Richard Orchardson even to 
the death; but he was no less firmly bent on finding Priscilla 
Sefton, the only vision of beauty and goodness he had ever had 
on this dark earth. 


CHAPTER XVI. 

ON BOABD THE AHLES STANDISH. 

In the autumn of the year of which we are writing, there lay 
in the harbor basin of Southampton the good ship Miles Standish, 
a bark of eight hundred tons burden, laden with goods for the 
American market, and having moreover accommodation for 
several cabin passengers, besides a large party of emigrants 
bound to New England. The skipper, Ezekiel Moses Higgin- 
botham, of Salem, Massachusetts, was a shrewd New Eng- 
lander, of pious bearings; and it was with no small satisfaction 
that he reflected that the emigrant party under his care were 
for the most part religiously disposed agricultural laborers and 
farm servants, destined to join a settlement of hard-working 
Moravians far in the heart of the colony. 

It was tlie evening before the day fixed for the sailing of the 
vessel, and the sun was just setting in golden splendor, after a day 
of unusual brightness and magnificence. Under an awning 
stretched from stern rail to companion of the vessel, sat two 
figures — one a tall gray-headed man dressed somewhat like a 
clergyman, the other a girl in pensive black. They were the 
Wesleyan preacher, Richard Sefton, and Priscilla his daughter. 

As they sat in the shadow, the old man looking down, the girl 
gazing with hopeful eyes on the sunlit light that covered the 
sparkling water, the numerous shipping, and the rose-tinted 
town, there came from the fore part of the ship the sound of an 
evening hymn, sung by male and female voices to a quaint old 
tune. Mr. Sefton listened well pleased, while Priscilla, not 
raising her voice, sang low in accompaniment, with a happy 
smile. 

When the song ceased, there came straddling to them a long 
shambling figure, smoking a great cigar. One eyelid was wide 
open, the other completely shut owing to some injury to the 
nerve; so that he was one-eyed like Polyphemus; but his coun- 


GOD AND THE MAN, 101 

tenance, brown as mahogany, and tough as leather, was suffi- 
ciently good humored. 

“Good evening, captain,” said Priscilla, smiling. “Shall we 
set sail early to-morrow?” 

Captain E. M. Higginbotham answered with a nod. 

“If so be the wind blows fair as it dew to-night, I calculate 
we shall be out of sight of these shores afore sunset; leastways 
if we can git a couple more hands aboard, for two of our white 
men have bolted, and we air short handed as it is.” 

As the skipper spoke, a boat shot alongside, and a voice was 
heard hailing the vessel. In another minute a light figure 
leaped on board, and approached the little group near the com- 
panion. 

With a cry, Priscilla recognized Richard Orchardson, clad in 
a dark suit of semi- nautical cut, and wearing a broad-brimmed 
sailor’s hat. He approached smiling. 

“Father! it is young Mr. Orchardson. He hath kept his 
promise, and come to bid us farewell.” 

By this time Richard’s hand was clasped in hers; and as the 
blind man rose to greet him, he exclaimed eagerly: 

“Nay, not farewell!” 

“But we sail to-morrow,” said Priscilla. 

“ And God willing, I will sail in your company, as you once 
besought me to do.” 

Priscilla looked at him in astonishment. More than once, 
indeed, when they had first discussed their plans for accom- 
panying the little colony to the States, it had been hinted, more 
in jest than earnest, that young Orchardson’s help and company 
would be welcome; but Priscilla herself had never seriously 
thought of the possibility. She knew the young man’s love for 
her, yet never calculated that it might lead him so great a 
length. Not entirely with pleasure now did she look into his 
eager face. 

But Mr. Sefton reached out both hands, and took those of 
Richard warmly. The young man knew his foibles, and had 
humored them so well that he was a prime favorite. 

“You are welcome,” he said, “and I think you have de- 
cided wisely. But what saith your worth}- father ?” 

“ He hath given me free leave to roam for a year,” replied 
Richard. “ If you can show me how to help the good cause, 
how to make myself helpful to the poor folk under your care, I 
shall be heartily glad; for, indeed, I am sick of an idle life, and 
would fain be of some use to the world.” 

Mr. Sefton nodded approvingly; and it w'as soon settled, by a 
reference to the skipper, who stood looking on phlegmatically, 
that Richard should take passage in the Miles Standish. So 
the seamen hoisted up his luggage from the boat, which still 
floated alongside, and descending to the skipper’s private cabin, 
he paid his passage-money and received an acknowledgment in 
writing about as legible as a cuneiform inscription. 

Returning to the deck Richard found Priscilla leaning over 
tlie vessel’s side and looking shoreward. Her face was shadowed, 
and she scarcely turned her eyes toward him as he approached. 


102 


GOD AND THE MAN 


“ Are you ar| 2 ;ry that I came?” he asked in a low voice. 

“ Why should 1 be angry?” 

“I had thought you might he pleased. For mine own part, 
I could not dwell content in the land when you were gone.” 

She turned her face to his with a searching look. 

“ You are not frank with my father,” she said. “ You make 
him believe that you would serve God, and good Master Wesley’s 
cause, but you care for neither.” 

He answered with a peculiar smile, Sweetheart, I care for 
both— for your dear sake.” 

She stamped lier little foot upon the deck in positive anger. 

‘•Go back to your father,” she cried; ‘‘your place is with 
him, and with your English kinstnen. Why should you follow 
us? W^e shall never perchance return to England, and you only 
waste your time. It is I whom you follow, not my father; and 
1 shall be better content if you do not come.” 

So she spoke, with cheek half averted from him; and never 
had she looked mon^ winsome and fair. The dying light of day 
lingered upon her cheek and on her hair, while Richard, with 
dark eyes fixed upon her, leaned upon the bulwark, smiling to 
himself at her petulance, and feeling certain that it would soon 
pass away. 

There was a pause. Finding she did not speak again, he said 
quietly: 

“ If it be a sin to forsake father, country, kinsmen, for the 
sake of one dearer than all, then in sooth I am to blame. To be 
near you, Priscilla, I would wander to the world's end. But do 
not think that I will fret you with my society. Unless you wish 
it, I will never come near your presence. I shall be content to 
sail in the same ship, under the same sky, with one so dear; and 
if God should so will it — which God himself forbid!— to sink 
with you to the same deep rest.” 

Priscilla trembled as she listened. Could it be Richard Or- 
chardson who was speaking? The words seemed so unlike any 
she had beard from him — more earnest, solemn, and truthful, less 
flippant and self-confident. Had Christian Christianson been the 
speaker, she could have understood; for he had often used such 
language, or language as deeply earnest. But, indeed, Richard 
Orchardson was for the time in earnest too. Had she known 
more of the world, she would have been aware that even light 
men have their solemn moods: and that, given time, place, and 
occasion, even a hypocrite or a self-lover may be honestly and 
unselfishly moved. Just then, Richard Orchardson, despite his 
characteristic self-pride and heartlessness, felt indeed a lover, 
who had sacrificed the world for his mistress’ sake, and was 
ready to follow her in all the chivalry of fearless manhood. 
The girl’s beautiful presence, the dreamy scene, the deepening 
twilight, the soft voices of 'the sea, had all their temporary spell 
upon him. It is idle to think that such things have witchery for 
only good men: they influence the bad and ignoble also; nay, 
even brute beasts feel them, blindly feeling upward to speech and 
' soul. 

What could Priscilla say ? She could scarcely blame the man 


GOD AND THE MAN, 


103 


for loving her so much; and there was something in his devo- 
tion which touched her heart. She made one last appeal to him 
not to leave England. “Ask anything but that,” he said; and 
she yielded perforce, frankly telling him, however, that if he 
hoped to win her love, he hoped in vain. 

“ Because you love another,” he cried eagerly, thinking of 
his enemy. 

“ Because I love no man,” she answered simply; and with 
that answer his vanity was quite coutent. 

The Seftons, we may explain at this point, were not leaving 
England with the view of never returning. They were simply 
accompanying the emigrants, who were mainly Moravian con- 
verts, to the colony, to examine the ground there, and see how 
much more good might be done by sending out further emigrants 
in the future. It was a scheme in which the great Mr. Wesley 
was himself interested; and Mr. Sefton had contributed largely 
to the necessary funds. So the blind man and his daughter 
were sent, in a quasi-official way, to be the shepherd and shep- 
herdess of the outgoing flock; and then, when the work was 
done, to return for similar work elsewhere. 

This evening, the skipper of the Miles Standish rowed ashore, 
and, accompanied by his chief mate, a litile hard-grained 
Yankee, began beating the slums of Southampton, in the hope 
of making up his crew. But good men were scarce, and even 
bad ones were not to be had for the mere asking. 

“ 1 reckon we shall have to sail short-handed, after all,” cried 
Captain Higginbotham, scratching his head. 

He was standing at the door of a dingy public-house on the 
waterside, surveyed at a respectful distance by divers land- 
sharks and waterside characters, who took no little delight in 
his dilemma. In company with his mate, he had beaten up 
every possible lodging-house and drinking den in the town, 
without any definite result whatever. 

As he spoke, there stood before him a tall, muscular figure, 
dressed in a slop seaman’s suit, very like those which w^ere 
dangling for sale over the doors of nearly all the lovv outfitting 
shops in the town. On his head he wore a rough seaman’s cap, 
round his throat a rough muffler was loosely thrown. He had a 
loose shambling gait, characteristic of the waterside loafer, and 
when he spoke, he shuffled with his feet, and looked upon the 
ground. 

“Waal, where do hail from ?” growled the skipper, look- 
ing at him c(*ntemptuously. 

•• I’ve heard as how you're short-handed,” said the man, with 
a strong countrv accent, “ and I thought ” 

“ Waal, what might you happen to think ?” asked the captain. 

“I thought as how I might serve.” 

The captain surveyed tlie speaker leisurely, beginning with 
his feet, and lifting his gaze slowly, inch by inch, till it met a 
pair of deep-set eyes, intensely bright and keen. Then he shook 


his head. 

“Don’t try it on with ir.c, stranger, ” he said. 


*tYou won’t 


suit.” 


104 


QOD AND THE MAN. 


“Why?” 

“ ’Cause I guess you’re no more a salt-water sailor than that 
there pamp-handle.” 

“ How do you know that ?” asked the man, with the ghost of 
a smile on his cheek.” 

“ By the voice of you, by the rigs of you, and by the cut of 
your precious jib. Let’s feel of you hands! Theer! Call that 
a sailor’s paw! Why, you’re a land-lubber, and ^never smelt 
green water.” 

“ And if so be T am,” persisted the man, “ why shouldn’t I 
smell it now? Lookee, skipper! I’m strong and I’m young, I 
can row and sail a boat, and I’m willing to work my way out 
for my keep, if so be you’ll take me.” 

The skipper was about to give another grim negative, when 
the mate caught him by the sleeve and whispered in his ear. 
The two talked in a low voice together for some minutes, then 
the captain turned sharply to the volunteer, and fixed him with 
his one eye. 

“ You mean it, stranger ?” 

“ Yes; I want to get out to the colony.” 

“ Wheer might you be raised, and what’^ your name?” 

“ I was born and christened in Essex County, and my name — ” 
here the man hesitated a moment, but continued boldly, 
“ my name’s John Dyson.” 

“We sail to-morrow morning, first tide.” 

“Soon as you like, skipper.” 

“ Then I’m your man, John Dyson. I’ll hev you, and chaw 
my head off if I don’t make a sailor on you, somehow. Dew 
you say done?” 

“ Done.” 

“Done it is,” said the captain, and held out his horny hand. 

Late that evening, when the town was asleep, the captain, 
w^ell primed with liquor and tolerably well contented, entered 
his gig, followed by the new seaman, carrying a small canvas 
bag of necessaries. As they rowed out through the dark basin, 
with its twinkling lights, the stranger volunteered a question. 

“Skipper?” 

‘ Waal?” 

“ I’ve heerd there’s a blind man aboard your ship— a blind 
man and his daughter.” 

“ And if there is, you lubber, what then?” 

“ Naught; it is no affair of mine, only I thought ” 

“Hold your jaw,” growled the captain. “Guess we don’t 
ship you to think, but to pull ropes. Never you mind my pas- 
sengers; your job’s afore the mast, and you’ll hev to look alive 
aboard any ship of mine.” 

A few minutes afterward the new hand stepped on board, and 
was roughly ordered off to the forecastle. 

As he stood on the fore part of the vessel alone in the dark- 
ness, his manner changed, and casting off for the moment his 
awkw’urd attitude, he stood erect and listened; while from the 
distant cabin there came the sound of a woman’s voice singing. 


QOD AND THE MAN, 105 

“ I was right after all,’ ’ he muttered to himself; “ she is here 
— he hath followed her; I have only to watch and wait.” 


CHAPTER XVII. 

OUTWARD BOUND. 

Early the next day, the good ship Miles Standish, with free 
sheets and all sail set, was slipping with a fair wind down the 
English Channel, with her bowsprit pointing almost due west- 
ward, and the low-lying shores of England lying dark and dim 
on the starboard side. The breeze was light, yet firm, the 
smooth billows just darkened by a pleasant ripple, the skies 
overhead blue and light, and the air sunny. 

She was not a brilliant sailer, the Miles Standish, and was 
without splendid accomplishments or beauty of any kind ; but 
«be did her w^ork in a sober, settled, business-like fashion, that 
showed she could be depended upon in all kinds of weather. 
Though she was well laden, she carried her cargo easily, and 
there, in the open ocean highway, where vessels of all sorts and 
sizes were going and coming, she held her own, running with 
many clippers of her own tonnage, and would have proved a 
laggard only in the event of a long beat to windward. 

Priscilla Sefton stood on deck, and looked with pleased eyes 
on the radiant scene around her; ponderous merchantmen, beat- 
ing clumsily homeward toward the silvery mouth of the Thames; 
fishing-boats and coasting cutters, darting to and fro like happy 
wild-fowd; here and there a snowy-sailed gunboat or formidable 
man-of-w’ar’s-man, with closed portholes like clinched teeth; 
and sail of all degrees and sizes, running with the Miles Standish 
along the smooth watery highway to the west. It was her first 
real experience of the beauties of the sea; for though she had 
more than once crossed the narrow Channel in a sailing packet, 
it had generally been at night, or in such weather as made clear- 
headed observation impracticable, not to say impossible. So 
she was like a happy child. She had no such tender ties in Eng- 
land as could make her sad or homesick, and if she thought 
now of Christian Christianson, it was as of a pleasant friend, 
whom she might or might not meet again, but whose life in any 
case was complete without any new’' contact with her own. 

Alas! how little did she know that the blind sisters were 
weaving their tangled thread to confuse her pretty dreams and 
plans! How little did she guess that on board that very ship 
were lurking the two elements of love ami hate, by which her 
fate was destined to be determined for joy or sorrow! 

“Are you sorry to leave England?” asked Richard Orchard- 
son, coming near her as she leaned over the bulwarks and 
looked landward. “For my part, I should not care if it sunk 
forever beneath the sea, so that I had the green water to look 
on, this good ship to sail in, and you to keep me company till 
the end of time.” 

“And your father?” said Priscilla, smiling. “You forget 
that he abides in the land and would sink with it.” 

“ Heaven forbid!” cried Richard, quickly. “ I did indeed for. 


106 


GOD AND THE MAN. 


get the dear old man. But as for dreary England, for the place 
where T was born, never did I hate it so much as now.” 

“And I love it!” returned Priscilla, looking with dreamy eyes 
at the faint line of the English shore. “I love England and 
English folk. I should not like to die afar. I think my ghost 
would rise, and speed across the seas to the dear old land.” 

“ Nay, but all lands are alike, when those we hold dear are 
with us.” 

“I do not think that,” answered Priscilla, simply, not heed- 
ing the tender tone or noting the warm look with which the 
words had been accompanied. “A good man loves his dear 
ones first, and then his home, how poor soever it be. and then 
his country; and he who loves the last best, doth often love the 
others most.” 

Richard flushed nervously, for something in the little speech 
sounded like a reproach. In Priscilla’s presence, deeply as he 
enjoyed its charm, he was never quite free from the irritation a 
somewhat ignoble disposition must ever experience beneath the 
spell of an ingenuous nature. This irritation, instead of gener- 
ating a noble shame, vented itself in the dark workings of the 
strong personal passion which filled the young man’s soul. 

That day passed, and when night came the weather was still 
exquisitely calm. The shores of England had faded away into 
the sea, leaving in their stead, on the dark sea line, clusters of 
splendid stars; and all around, and overhead, the arches of 
heaven were hung with luminous lamps, and in the west the 
moon was large and round as a shield, strewing the glassy swell 
with palpitating beams. 

Richard Orchardson has chosen his opportunity well. By 
joining Priscilla on board ship, by becoming of necessity her 
constant companion and fellow -passenger, he was likely to find 
ample means of reaching her heart. And now, on this first 
night of the voyage, when the very breaking of the sea seemed 
full of unsatisfied yearning, and the* glowing heavens bright with 
love, Priscilla and* he were again alone together. Tf with the 
very elements as accomplices he could not gain her sympathetic 
attention, then surely his suit was hopeless. 

Hopeless indeed it seemed. Directly he touched upon the 
theme of love, Priscilla drew her hand away from his (he had 
taken it in the fervor of some strong protesting speech) and said, 
“ Good-night.” 

“ Good -night,” he repeated. 

“ Yes; now you begin again to talk foolishly, I will not stay. 

I was right, after all. You would have done li^tter to have re- 
mained in England.” 

“Nay, but hearken!” 

“ You have broken your promise.” 

“How?” 

“ Not to fret me with speaking as no other man hath dared to 
speak. Well, I was right. You had better have remained at 
home.” 

So saying, she left him and went below. 

Scarcely had she left the deck, when a figure flitted past 


OOD AND THE MAN, 107 

Richard’s side, and disappeared in the direction of the fore- 
castle. 

******* 

The green hand, John Dyson, found himself among a rough 
lot forward. The forecastle itself vvas a foul, ill -smelling hole, 
dark as a tomb, and impure as a charnel-house, and its occu- 
pants were for the most part old sea-dogs, witli scarcely an idea 
in the world beyond seamanship and rum. 

At first these choice spirits seemed to resent the intrusion of 
a green hand among them, evincing their humor by a series of 
jokes more practical than profound, and in every way the reverse 
of delicate. On discovering, however, that John Dyson, though 
a quiet, retiring person, was inclined to resent such liberties, or 
to retaliate in the same humorous spirit by knocking one or two' 
of the jokers’ heads together, the choice spirits thought better of 
it. They perceived that John jDysou was a very harmless ship- 
mate if let alone, but that he was very far from harmless when 
strangers encroached too far. In point of physical strength he 
was a match for any two men in the ship; in point of determina- 
tion and courage he vvas equal in an emergency to the whole 
crew. 

His work lay before the mast, and he seemed to prefer that it 
should be there. Naturally quick and energetic-, he was soon 
able to hold his own with the other seamen, and his great phys- 
ical strength gave him an additional advantage. So that the 
worthy captain and his mate were not long before they congratu- 
lated each other on having shipped John Dyson. 

One peculiarity of the new hand they could not fail to remark; 
he was careless to indifference of his life, and whenever there 
was any dangerous duty to be performed below or aloft, he was 
the first to undertake it. 

Four days after the ship left port, she was tossing in an ocean 
black as ink, and there vvas heard on every side the ominous 
sound of rising wind and water. An order w’as given to double- 
reef topsails, and among those who ran up the rigging like wild 
cats, John Dyson was foremost. 

As lie hung out of the extreme edge of the fore-topmast yard, 
with the sail belching and bellowing and thundering around 
him, and tlie wild canvas struggling like a living thing in the 
clutch of his hand, he saw far below him on the deck the form 
of Priscilla Sefton, standing near to the companion. The 
vessel gave a great lurch, and he saw her stagger on the deck, 
but. before she could fall or leave her place, Richard Orchardson 
had sprung forward and caught her in his arms. 

The next minute there was a loud cry forw’ard. ^‘A man 
overboard !” 

Jolin Dyson heard the cry, as the wild water, with a thunder- 
ous roar, surged up around him, stunned him and sucked him 
dowm. In the eagerness of his gaze downward, he had relaxed 
his hold and fallen— prone into the sea. 

For a moment he seemed to lose consciousness. Then he 
found himself struggling and choking on the summit of a great 


108 


GOD AND THE MAN 


wave, looking after the ship, which seemed to stand stationary 
like a cloud, while he was swept away before the waves. 

He heard the cry — he saw the faces clustering at the side; 
among them he recognized, or seemed to recognize, her face, 
white and fearful; then he sank down into the trough of the 
sea, and saw nothing but flying foam and roaring water. 

Fortunately, he was a strong swimmer. Instinctively he 
struck out for life. Rising lilce a cork on the crest of the next 
wave, he saw the schponer’s sails telling out before the wind, 
and saw her sweeping round. Then the waters sucked him 
down into the trough again, and he was washed on. 

Strangely enough, his head was quite clear. He felt bis 
danger, but was more or less indifferent to it, though the mere 
instinct of self-preservation made him use what skill he pos- 
sessed in keeping afloat. 

Presently, after he had almost given up the hope of succor, 
he saw the schooner bearing down toward him under the light- 
est of canvas. As she came nearer, passing within a ship’s 
length of him, he saw again the faces thronging against her 
side. A shout rose in the air, faint and far off it seemed, like a 
voice from a mountain-top, and he knew that he was seen. 

The vessel sped past, and then, having done so, was brought 
up to the wind to leeward of him. Every wash of the waters 
now swept him nearer and nearer to it, but he struck out firmly, 
and partly impelled by his own strength, partly driven by the 
surging waves, swam for life. 

The rest seemed darkness and confusion. He heard the 
waters roaring, saw the vessel looming above him, tvhile human 
voices sounded faintly from its decks; then, blinded by the salt 
surge and choking spray, he clutched a rope which was flung to 
him and over him — and in another minute was drawn on deck, 
dripping like a rough- coated water-dog. 

Priscilla had been an eye-witness of everything, from the mo- 
ment that the alarm was raised to the moment when the man 
was drawn back on deck. She had watched the water wildly, 
scarcely distinguishing the living shape upon it, until, as the 
rope was thrown, she had caught the glimpse of a wild, wave- 
washed form, a gasping, upturned face, and waving arms. As 
for the face, it was only dimly perceptible, covered with tangled 
hair, foam- bespattered, and changed almost beyond recognition. 

But when they had drawn the man on board, she would have 
stepped forward to look at him, and perhaps speak to him, had 
not Richard interposed. 

“You bad better stop here,” he said, “ they are a rough lot 
before the mast.” 

“ Nay, but the poor man may need succor yet. If I may not 
go to him, do you go in my place, and tell him ” 

Just at that moment the skipper came aft, after having made 
his inspection of the rescued man. Priscilla questioned him at 
once, and received from his own lips the assurance that there 
was no cause for further alarm. 

“The man’s all right, I calculate,” said the skipper, phleg- 
matically. “ You see he’s a land- lubber, and I guess it's his first 


OOD AND THE MAN, 109' 

salt-water bath, but he can swim like a fish, and he’s none the 
worse. Don’t you fret yourself about him /” 

So Pi’iscilla did not go forward. Had she done so she would 
have seen John Dyson standing near the forecastle hatch, wet 
and bewildered but otherwise much the same as before he fell 
into the sea. In one particular only was he changed. The men 
noted it, whispered about it among themselves, and in a puz- 
zled sort of way. 

Before he had fallen into the sea, he had worn a beard. NoWf 
curiously enough, no sign of a beard was to be seen. 

The sea had washed it away. 

******* 

It was a noticeable fact that after that day John. Dyson grew 
sullener and stranger than ever. When he came on deck next 
morning, his face was strangely disfigured; one of his eyes was 
terribly blackened, and there was an ugly bruise upon his 
mouth, obliterating the natural expression entirely. 

The mate cocked his eye at him, but made no remark — the 
marks seemed the natural consequence of the accident; but the 
men shook their heads, and winked significantly at one an- 
other. 

Later on in the day the boatswain accosted the mate. 

“Queer customer, this green hand. Have you observed his 
figurehead ?” 

The mate nodded, and the boatswain continued: 

“ Well, a fall into the sea don’t mark like that. He’s made 
those marks hisself.” 

“ What the thunder do you mean ?” 

“ Wore a false beard when he went overboard; and came back 
clean shaven. Put those cuts and bruises on with his own hand, 

I guess.” 

The mate cogitated for a moment, then gave a hoarse chuckle. 

“What d’ye make of it ?” he asked. 

“Some one wants him, 1 s’pose, and he’s feared o’ being 
known.” 

“ Well, it’s no consarn of ours. We’ve shipped him, and he 
does his work like a sailor. But keep your eye on him, for 
all that.” 

That very night, as Captain Higginbotham issued from below, 
he saw a figure crouching on the deck, and gazing eagerly down 
through the skylight — into the cabin where Priscilla, her father 
and Richard Orchardson were seated at the evening meal. 

“ Who’s there?” cried the skipper. 

Without answering the figure began to move toward the fore 
part of the ship. 

“ Who’s there — d’ye hear?” repeated the skipper, striding for- 
ward and gripping the figure' by the shoulder. “ What, John 
Dyson I What d’ye mean by skulking about aft ?” 

"John Dyson made no reply. • 

“Jest you go forward, and mind this— your place is before 
the mast.” 

Still silent, John Dyson glided back to his place among the 


110 


OOD AND THE MAN. 


men, while the captain, with a suspicious shake of the head, 
watched him disappear. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

“JOHN DYSON.” 

Half-way across the Atlantic tlie Miles Standish encountered 
the storm -winds of the autumnal equinox, and for several days 
and nif^hrs captain and crew had all tlieir work before them in 
keeping the little vessel snug. The small party of Wesleyan 
emigrants lay sick amidships, Mr. Sefton kept his berth, and 
Priscalla scarcely left her cabin. During this period, Richard 
was assiduous in his attentions to both father and daughter. 

On the third morning of the storm, Richard went on deck, 
and found the ship lying-to with just enough canvas set to keep 
her steady, on a sea as white as snowdrift, and under skies as 
black as "ink. Dawn was just breaking, with wind and rain. 

Clinging to the companion, with thespray breaking over him, 
Ricliard looked along the decks and saw the watch gathered 
forward, fresh from taking in more sail. Apart from them 
stood a powerful figure, clinging to the fore rigging, and look- 
ing to windward. 

Richard started. He could not see the man’s face, but some- 
thing in the figure seemed curiously familiar. He only knew 
one man in the world so powerfully fashioned, and that man 
was Christian Christianson. 

The man turned and their eyes met. 

Richard was troubled anew; for the face, save that it was 
greatly disfigured and distorted, bore a certain resemblance to 
that of his old enemy. The eyes especially, with their deep, de- 
termined light, were strangely like those of Christianson. 

After a momentary gaze, the man turned his head away, and 
looked again at the sea. Richard smiled at his own fears. 
Doubtless there was a strong physical resemblance between the 
strange sailor and Christianson; but the latter was in England, 
safe and far away. He cast another scrutinizing look at the 
wild, rudely-dressed figure, then he turned to the captain, who 
stood by the man at the wheel. 

“ Can you tell me that man's name?” he inquired carelessly. 

“ The tall man with the bruises upon his face?” 

“Yes.” 

“ That’s one of our extra hands, John Dyson.” 

“ An Englishman ?” 

“Yes; and a good sailor he is, though a green hand. Seems 
to interest you, 1 guess?” Richard glanced forward, and saw 
that the man, though seemingly occupied at some of the ropes, 
was still looking stealthily in his direction. 

“ He is very like some one I used to know, that’s all.” 

“Waal,” said the skipper phlegmatically, “I calculate he 
ain’t much good. My mate tells me queer tales about him, and 
I reckon he must be some jail- bird that has flown out of the 
stone cage. But that’s no business of mine; I shipped him, and 
he does his work like a man,” 


GOD AND THE MAN. 


Ill 


Eicliard cast another nervous look at the sailor, who still stood 
in tlie same position, obviously watchful. Was it possible? 
Could it indeed be Chri-tian Christianson, masquerading for 
some dark purpose of his own ? The idea seemed preposterous, 
and Richard soon dismissed it. Nevertheless, the resemblance 
troubled him, and gave rise to a certain watchful uneasiness. 

His first strong impulse was to speak to Priscilla, and direct 
her attention to the person calling himself John Dyson. 

On reflection, however, he felt that it might be unwise, for 
the sake of a very foolish suspicion, to recall to her the memory 
of one who had been a dangerous rival. For all he knew, that 
rival was altogether forgotten, and the longer he remained so 
the more likely was his own passionate suit to thrive. 

At last the equinoctial storm abated, and was succeeded, as is 
so often the case, by an interval of sunny weather. The troub- 
led sea became smooth as glass and bright as gold, the wind 
died gradually away, the skies grew cloudless and clear. 

Then Priscilla came on deck again, adding sunshine to the 
sunshine. 

No sooner did she do so, than Richard looked for the strange 
sailor. He was nowhere to be seen. 

Nor did Richard fail to remark afterward that whenever 
Priscilla was on deck John Dyson was invisible. Whether by 
set design or accident he invariably happened to be out of the 
way. 

“ Sweet is sunshine after storm.” 

Those were pleasant days, those now spent upon the sea; 
pleasant, that is, to Priscilla Sefton. She was able to sit con- 
stantly on the deck, look at the sparkling water, and dream. 

Now for the first time her thoughts scanned her past, and 
tried to unravel the f)leasant mystery of the future. It was the 
past which troubled her most, however; it was to those many 
and stormy episodes in the valley of Brightlinghead that her 
thoughts most persistently returned; and as she did so the face 
of Christian Christianson, almost forgotten for a space, con- 
stantly flashed before her dreamy eyes. 

While she had been wdth him Priscilla had caught too much 
of the whi Iwind of his passion to be able to analyze her own 
feelings regarding him — she only knew that for his faults she 
seemed ever ready to make excuses. Then his strange passion 
had alarmed her, and she had fled, with a quiet prayer upon 
her lips, that under brighter and happier circumstances the 
two might some day meet again. Would that prayer ever be 
answered? would it ever again be her lot to stand as she had 
stood upon the silent sea-shore — feel his strong hand grasping 
her own, and hear his voice saying, “ Priscilla, I love you!” 

Love her! ah yes, he did love her very much, she was sure of 
that; and now she acknowledged to herself, what she had never 
dared acknowledge to him, that his love had been, in a measure, 
returned. 

One night, during the fine weather, a curious circumstance 
happened, on© which for ‘the time completely shattered Pris- 


m 


GOD AND THE MAN. 


cilia’s dream, and made her even more uneasy as to what might 
be going on far away. 

Evening prayer was over, most of the emigrants had retired 
for the night, when Priscilla, feeling restless and singularly 
wakeful, went up on deck to enjoy the fresh air and muse for 
a few minutes alone. 

She walked for a time up and down the deck; then she paused, 
and, leaning on the bulwarks, looked down into the sea. Tlie 
night was well advanced, but she could see the glimmering of 
the waves, deep down, by the light of the moon and a brilliantly 
starlit sky. 

She stood for a time looking down, then her dreaminess passed 
away; she raised her head, and was about to turn and continue 
her walk, when a shiver ran through her frame, her hand 
grasped nervously at the woodwork at her side, and her eyes 
gazed full into the eyes of an apparition! 

Standing a few paces away, with his melancholy eyes fixed 
on hers, his face deathly pale , was Christian Christianson. 

Was it dream or reality? Priscilla could not tell. The shock 
was so sudden that she completely lost her habitual self-control, 
and uttered a terrified scream. 

The next moment the face and form which the moonlight had 
revealed to her with such terrible distinctness were nowhere to 
be seen. 

But her scream brought assistance; in a moment she was sur- 
rounded with eager inquirers. The captain bent his one eye 
upon her, and roughly but kindly patted her cold, trembling 
hand; Richard Orchardson stood by, eager to offer more sub- 
stantial comfort; but to none of these would Priscilla give a de- 
tailed explanation of what had taken place. 

“ Perchance it was only a fancy,” she said. “ Methought I 
saw the spirit of one who is far away. But I will go down to 
my father, and I will not disturb you with my foolish fancies 
again.” 

The captain, who was inclined to make allowances for the 
hysterical tendencies of women, accepted this explanation and 
thought of the matter no more; but Richard Orchardson was of 
a more inquiring mind, and consequently was not so easily sat- 
isfied. Long after Priscilla had bidden all a sweec good-night, 
and shut herself in her cabin, he walked the deck trying to un- 
ravel the mystery. 

In vain; without Priscilla’s aid he could never know what had 
taken place that night. 

All that night, sleep was a stranger to Priscilla Sef ton’s pil- 
low; now, more than ever, her thoughts wandered back to the 
village from which she was flying: and her brain conjured up 
the picture of the pale, sad face which she had seen so vividly in 
vision. How very pale and sad it had looked ; how reproachfully 
the eyes had gazed at her. Even now, as she looked and list* 
ened, she seemed to hear his voice calling to her across the sea, 
and her tender heart was full of self-reproach. “ It was cow- 
ardly cruel of me to leave him,” she said; “ if I had stayed, 


QOD AND THE MAN, 113 

with God’s help I might have saved him; but now— nay, the 
Lord only knows what he may become!” 

Though the memory of the strange apparition haunted her, 
she resolved to speak of it to no one; and for a time she kept her 
resolve; at length, however, the terror of it — the harassing 
thoughts of what it might portend, grew so strong upon her, 
that she felt she could keep silent no longer, and she spoke of it 
to Richard Orchardson. 

The two were seated together during'the twilight on a secluded 
part of the deck. Priscilla had an open book upon her lap. 
Richard was finishing the perusal of an old letter, which he had 
received from home just before sailing. Having read it slowly 
through, be folded up the close-written sheet, and put it into 
his pocket. Then bending forward he looked into the girl’s pale 
thoughtful face. 

“ I must crave your forgiveness,” he said, quietly; “ my father 
sent many messages to you, and until this day I have forgotten 
to deliver them.” 

“ Indeed,” answered Priscilla, quietly; “ he was always good 
and kind to me, and I thank him from my heart. I hope that 
w’hen he wrote he was well and happy.” 

“ Yes, he was well, and seeing that he was alone, tolerably 
happy.” 

He should not be alone,” answered Priscilla, gravely. ‘‘ He 
had only you; you should have stayed with him like a good son 
— since you had no serious business or holy errand to take you 
away.” 

For a time the two were silent; then the young man spoke 
again. 

“ Priscilla, would you like to hear what my good father said?” 

“ Assuredly, if it is well for me to hear it.” 

“Then listen: ‘I am dull, dear Dick — very dull and sad; but 
I would bear it all right gleefully, if I could but look forward to 
the day when you would come back to me, with Priscilla Sefton 
for my daughter and your wife.” 

“ He did not say that!” 

“ Assuredly he did.” 

“ Then you should not have told me. Nay, do not speak of it; 
if you do, [ shall keep my word and never trust you again.” 

“ Then I shall speak of it no more.” 

Again they were silent; this time Priscilla was the first to 
speak. 

“Did your father give you no news?” she asked quietly; 
“ hath he not spoken in that letter of any one I know ?” 

“ He has mentioned many; of whom were you thinking most 
particularly, Mistress Priscilla ?” 

She paused a moment, then replied: 

“ Of the Christiansons, of Fen Farm.” 

How dark the man’s face grew! for a moment he almost hated 
the little demure figure at his side. 

“ “ Why do you ask for them F” 

“ Because ‘l am interested in them, and because I fear that 
since I left the village some harm hath surely come to them.” 


114 


GOD AND THE MAN. 


“ Whv do you think that, Priscilla?” 

“ I will tell you. You heard me cry out the other night— and 
I am sure you have since wondered wherefore.. Well, you 
shall know now. ’Twas because I did suddenly see the face of 
poor Christian Christianson, as plainly as I see yours now!” 

“His face! where ?” 

“ On tins vessel. The moonlight was strong and bright, it 
fell upon the face. It made it so strange and clear, that had I 
been on land I should have sworn that I had seen the living 
man.” 

“ A foolish fancy! Good heavens! you cannot think it more?” 

Priscilla smiled quietly. 

“That is a strange question,” she said. “How could it be 
aught else, when we both know poor Christian to be hundreds 
of miles away ? But the memory of that strange vision troubles 
me, and makes me think that something terrible may have hap- 
pened since I came here.” 

“ Priscilla!” 

“ Well, ray friend.” 

“ Be advised by me— try to forget Brightlinghead — and, above 
all, think of Christian Christianson — no more!” 

“ Why do you tell me to forget my friends?” 

“ Because I have your welfare at heart — because I wish to 
shield you from harm.” 

“ Which might come to me through Christian Christianson ?” 

“Which icilL come to you, to us both, through him, if we ever 
cross his path again. He hated both me and mine with bitter, 
undying hatred — as meaningless as it is strong. Ever since my 
boyhood he has made himself terrible to me. He knew he was 
the stronger of the two. and he used all his strength against me. 
He persecuted me continually, and to this day I bear the mark 
of his brute hand. I bore it all because I pitied him, but now 
all is changed; since we both knew you, he hath known the 
power of hurting me in a way 1 cannot bear!” 

He paused, and looked into her face — it vvas very pale; and 
her hands were clinched convuisiv'ely together. It was better 
than he had anticipated; she was passive, if not pleased; so he 
went on. 

“Priscilla, will you forgive me if I speak?” 

“ Nay, there is one theme on which I have besought you never 
to speak to me.” 

“ And after this day I will try to obey you; but hear me now. 
Priscilla, Christian Christianson knew l" loved you. He knew 
that by tearing you from me he could blight my life and make 
me a miserable man. He knew that by poisoning your soul 
against me, he could hurt me more keenly than ever he had 
been able to do, and it was thus he tried to strike me. Ho wooed^ 
you from me, and he chilled your heart against me— not that he 
loved you, but that he hated me! So, God knows, I have cause 
to hate him in turn; but 1 would forgive him all he ever did me, 
if you would promise me never, God willing, to cross his path 
again.” 


QOD AND THE MAN, 


115 


Priscilla did not answer him. Her head was whirling rcund 
her soul was stirred by a wild tumult whicli she could not 
quell. 

Richard Orchardson watched her. So intent was he that he 
had not noticed a black figure crawl stealthily along the deck 
and crouch like a snake behind them. 

He looked at Priscilla; she was still silent; he bent forward 
and took her hand. 

“Priscilla,” he said, “it will be a pitiful day for you if ever 
you take that man’s hand in friendship again*. He belongs to 
an evil race. The father was a beggar and a boiTovvej- of my 
father’s bounty. The sister is an outcast, as you know, de- 
spised by all good women. For himself, he hath all the taint 
of the breed, without one redeeming virtue — his father’s dishon- 
esty, his mother’s stubborn ingratitude, his sister's infirmity of 
disposition. If I told you all I knew of him, you would despise 
him freely, and banish him forever fiom your heart.” 

He stopped suddenly— the crouching figure rose, sprung for- 
ward, and a hand of iron gripped the slanderer by the throat. 


CHAPTER XIX. 

FACE TO FACE AGAIN. 

Richard looked up in horror, while Priscilla uttered a ter- 
rific cry. 

“ Liar I” repeated the man, still gripping Richard by the 
throat. 

There was no more mystery now. It was Christian Christian- 
son in the fles h w'ho stood before them, his face livid and ter- 
rible, his eyes burning, his strong frame, wrapped in a sailor’s 
rags, trembling with passion. 

“ HelpI*’ shrieked Richard; and thp next moment the two men 
were struggling and clinging together in a murderous embrace. 

There was a hurried tramp of feet, a quick rush of figures 
across the deck; and then, at the captain’s sudden word of com- 
mand, the men fell as one man upon the pair, and tore off 
Christian by sheer force. 

Pale as death, lialf-strangled, and terrified to the soul, Richard 
stood clinging to the bulwarks, and trembling violently. 

“ Whats all this ?” cried the skipper, cocking his one eye 
fiercely at Christian, who still struggled like a wild beast in the 
grasp of the crew. “ A sailor assaulting one of my passen^ersl 
Keep quiet, will you, John Dyson, or I’ll hev you knocked on 
the head with a marling-spike! What’s it all about?” 

“ For God’s sake, secure that man,” gasped Richard. “ He-^ 
he has tried to murder mel” 

The skipper turned savagely on Christian, but before he could 
say another word, Priscilla had stepped forward and was look- 
ing into the prisoner’s face. 

“Christian! is it possible?. Nay, I can scarce believe mine 
own eyes. Alas! what brought you here?” 

Christian gazed down at her wildly, but did not answer; his 


116 


GOD AND THE MAN, 


fatal homicidal passion still mastered him, and he made another 
frantic strug:gle to be free. 

“ What, you know this man cried the skipper, in unaffected 
astonishment, to Priscilla. 

“ Yes,” answered Priscilla, “ I know him well.” 

“And I know him,” exclaimed Richard, tremulously grasp- 
ing the captain’s arm, “ and I warn you that my life is in dan- 
ger unless he is safely secured. He hath followed me on board 
this vessel to kill me, and I demand protection.” 

Grim as death now, the skipper walked up to Christian, and 
looked him sternly in the face. 

“Speak you, John Dyson! or whatever the ’tarnal your name 
is. Hev you anything to say for yourself?” 

Christian answered between his set teeth: 

“ Nothing — that man has spoken the tmth.” 

“What?” 

“ I came to kill him, and I shall kill him, be sure of that.” 

An ugly look came into the worthy skipper’s face, a baleful 
light into his one eye. 

“ So killing’s your game, is it?” he said, dryly. “Wall, I’ll 
teach you to try it on board my ship. Take him below, and put 
him in irons at once.” 

Before Priscilla could interfere, Christian was dragged for- 
ward. He had ceased to struggle now, and walked away quite 
quietly, but the expression on his firm set face had not changed. 

No sooner had he disappeared, than Priscilla fell swooning 
upon the deck. 

The skipper raised her gently in his arms, while Richard 
sprinkled water on her face and tried to restore her. When she 
came to, she looked wuldly around her, as if seeking a familiar 
face. 

“ Is it thou, Christian ?” 

Richard’s white face grew positively livid as he heard the 
hated name. 

Then recollection came to her, in one vivid electrifying flash, 
and she covered her face with her hands and began to weep 
hysterically. 

The skipper’s eye watered, for Higginbotham, despite his Cy- 
clopean physiognomy, was a tender-hearted man when the ladies 
were in question, and could not bear to see a lovely woman in 
trouble. 

“ There’s more in this than I thought,” he reflected. “John 
Dyson, I calculate, is more than a common sailor, and my name 
isn’t E. M. Higginbotham if missie’s pretty face hasn’t brought 
him arter it across the sea.” 

Then he said aloud: 

“ Now look’ee, young mistress! Though your friend John 
Dyson’s in irons, he’s all safe and squar’, and no harm will come 
to him as long as he keeps quiet. When he passes his word to 
carry on like a sensible critter and not like a raging sea-serpint, 
I pass my word that we’ll knock off them irons and set him free.” 

Inspired by a new thought, Priscilla raised her pretty pleading 


GOD AND THE MAN. 117 

face, with the tears still sparkling in her eyes, and stretched 
out her trembling hand. 

“ Oh, sir, may I speak to him? He hath a good heart, and I 
think he will listen to me!” 

“ Speak to him, and welcome,” answered the skipper, kindly. 

But Richard interposed quickly. 

“ On no account! I tell you the man is a dangerous maniac. 
Nay! you shall not go to him.” 

But Priscilla was determined. Her heart was very full, and 
she yearned to find out what wild and desperate thought had 
brought Christian there; to speak some words of comfort, and 
perhaps of gentle rebuke and entreaty; to cast out, as far as 
might be, and as she had done more than once before, the evil 
demon that possessed him. 

So, in spite of Richard's renewed protestations, she went for- 
ward with the captain, and descended, with the help of rough 
but friendly hands, to the dark forecastle den, where Christian 
sat a prisoner, handcuffed and heavily ironed. 

He looked up as she appeared before him, but did not utter a 
word. 

Priscilla looked at him for several minutes before he made any 
sign of recognition, although he turned bis head and looked at 
her, but he still kept silent. 

“ Christian, listen to me!” 

“Well, Priscilla?” 

“ I have got the good captain’s leave to speak with thee; end 
1 have come to see if you have aught to say ?” 

She spoke demurely, almost timidly; Christian listened darkly, 
but moving his head restlessly from side to side, like a beast in 
physical pain. The thirst for vengeance had at that moment 
almost supplanted love. Looking at Priscilla, he knew that she 
had just come from the side of his enemy, and glancing fiercely 
down at the irons which secured him, he fretted more wildly to 
be free. As for Priscilla, she was thinking little that moment 
of Richard Orchardson, her mind was so sorrowfully sad at the 
sight before her. She longed to be tender, and that very long- 
ing made her manner stranger and colder than it had ever been 
before. 

“ Will you not speak to me?” she asked at length. “Have 
you nothing to say ?” 

“ Nothing.” 

“What hath made you leave your home, your mother, your 
sister, and come here upon the sea?” 

The man uttered a laugh which was painful to hear. 

“ Home ?” he said, “ nay, I have no home. My mother lies in 
the graveyard, my sister is an outcast, broken-hearted, and I am 
here with one thought only — to hunt down the devil who has 
been the cause of all our woe!” 

Priscilla shrank back in terror. 

“ Christian, talk not so. It is blasphemous.” 

“ And it is not blasphemous to break an aged woman’s heart; 
to ruin an innocent maid, and bring beggary and destruction on 


118 


QOD AND THE MAN. 


a happy homel Look yon, mistress, I am not fit company for 
you. You had best go back to him wlio is your choice.” 

“ It is not like you to talk so— you were not wont to pain me.” 

“ God alone knows what I was wont to do. The past is dead 
to me; ’tis with the future I have to do now. My work is cut 
out before me. I mean to finish it before I die.” 

He turned his head as if he wished the conversation to end, 
but Priscilla did not move away. Once already she had fled 
from him, and her regret had been so keen as to bold her firm 
now. She moved a few steps toward him, and laid her hand 
tenderly upon his arm. 

“ Good Christian,” she said quietly, “ if I were to listen to the 
voice of pride within me, I should walk straight back to my 
cabin yonder, and never seek your presence here again. But I 
know you better than you know yourself. Come, do not treat 
me as an enemy or a false friend, for you know well I am 
neither; but tell me what has brouglit you here?” 

“ I have told you already, mistress; I mean to have my just 
revenge.” 

“Upon Mr. Orchardson?” 

“Ay,” answered Christian, in a voice so terrible that she 
shrank back again. 

“ Alasl you are bitterly to blame. Why are you so bent upon 
hunting a fellow-creature down?” 

“Why? because he and his have been the scath and scourge 
of me and mine; because I lay at his door the sorrow of my 
sister, whom he. betrayed to shame, the broken heart of my 
mother, and the miserable shattering of all our lives!” 

“No, no!” cried Priscilla, “you are madly wrong. Your poor 
sister ” 

“He betrayed her — with her own lips she told me that he be- 
trayed her.” 

“ It is not possible!” 

“ It is certain,” cried Christian. “ But there, talk not of her; 
hath he not told you that her name is unfit to pass your li{)s? 
and perchance he spoke the truth; but before God I swear to 
yon, as I swore before, that for every bitter tear she hath shed I 
will have a drop of his heart's blood!” 

His passion was so overmastering that she stood appalled. She 
saw that words were useless, that they fell like drops of dew 
upon a flaming brand. So she stood wringing her hands, and 
weeping for very fear. 

Then she cried through her tears: 

“ Christian! once — not so long ago — you said you loved me— 
and you swore for my sake to be a good man. Listen to me, in 
God’s name! It would be better to die, better to be l.ving in your 
grave, than nurse such terrible thoughts! It is true that you 
have suffered; but alas! to suffer is our lot; and as God forgives 
us our trespasse.s, so should vve forgive those that trespass 
against us. Forgive Richard Orchardson! You must! you 
will!” 

She paused, but Christian did not answer her. Emboldened 
by his silence, she went on: 


OOD AND THE MAN. 


119 


“ If T could induce you to forj^et and forgive, to leave all 
these heart-breaking troubles behind you, and begin a new life, 

all might yet be well, and with God’s blessing ’’ 

Do not talk of it — I seek not God’s blessing; all I seek is to 
have vengeance upon my enemy; for that I’ll watch and wait, 
and though I wait for fifty years the time will come.” 

For some little space yet, Priscilla remained and continued 
her gentle pleading: but at every word Christian grew more 
morose, and at last he would answer nothing. At length, with 
a weary, disappointed sigh, she left him, saying Xo him that she 
.would come back again, and vowing in her iieart that she would 
leave no device untried to turn him from the wicked purpose 
upon which he had set his heart. 

For she said to herself, It seems to me that sorrow has turned 
his brain. God help him — and may God help me to bring some 
solace to his soul.” 

On. the after-deck she met Richard Orchardson; he paused to 
speak to her, but Priscilla, with a strange shrinking at her 
heart, passed silently by, and quickly gained her cabin. 

There she sat down to think. She reviewed the story which 
Christian had unfolded in broken hints, and as she did so her 
heart was filled with a bitterness almost as strong as that which 
filled the heart of the injured man. while the thought of Rich- 
ard Orchardson made her sick with shame. So Richard was 
the girl’s betrayer, and yet he had looked on unmoved when she 
lay almost dying at Priscilla’s feet. Priscilla’s eyes were opened 
now. She frankly acknowledged to herself that Christian had 
bitter cause for hatred, and the pity in her soul strengthened 
the love which he had already awakened there. 

As the night wore on, she felt she could not rest below. Still 
shocked and agitated beyond measure, she went again on deck. 

Close to the cabin companion, she encountered the worthy 
captain. 

Waal,” he said, with a kindly smile, “how hev you left 
John Dyson now? Hev you brought that young man to his 
senses r” 

Tears stood in the girl’s eyes as she replied, just touching the 
lappet of the skipper’s coat with her little hand: 

“O captain dear, you have a kind heart, and 1 am sure you 
will pity him, for he hath had much, mucli trouble. His name 
is not John Dyson, but Christian Christianson, and great sor- 
rows have made him mad.” 

“Ah! I knew from the fust he were no common sailor, his 
hands were too soft and white, his tongue too civil and free. 
But I daren’t set him loose till he dew come to his senses and 
promises to behave hisself all squar’. Can I take his word, 
think you, if he promises that?” 

“ Yes,” replied Priscilla. “ Whatever he saith, he will ful- 
fill.” 

The skipper nodded good-humoredly, and strolled forward. 
Priscilla was about to follow him, when Richard emerged from 
the companion, and greeted her with a joyful exclamation. To 


120 


OOD AND THE MAN, 


his renewed surprise, she turned her head away, and tried to 
pass by without a word. 

“ What is the matter?” he cried, reaching out his hand to de- 
tain her. 

She shook off the touch with a shiver of horror, and made an- 
other attempt to pass. But he persisted. 

“I see,” he said, turning white with agitation; “it is as I 
feared. That villain hath been poisoning your thoughts against 
me.” 

“ He is no villain,” answered Priscilla with sudden intensity; 
“ if he hath spoken truth, you are the villain, not he!” 

Richard s face went whiter; he trembled from head to foot 
with a new and sickening fear. 

“What hath he said?” 

“ He hath justified himself against you— that is enough.” 

“ By more lies and calumnies,” cried Richard, while his face 
became full of anger and despair. “ And you have listened to 
him! You/ Then God help me, for I am wronged indeed.” 

“You are not wronged — he and his have been wronged from 
the beginning.” 

“ It is false, Priscilla, though you say it.” 

“ It is true.” 

“ Tell me what he hath said. At least, let me defend myself.” 

“You cannot,” answered Priscilla. 

“ Let me try!” 

Thus urged, Priscilla told him what she had heard concerning 
himself and poor Kate Christianson. At the first breath of the 
accusation, Richard shrunk like a guilty thing, while his face 
went from pale to red, from red to pale, and his whole frame 
shook with agitation. But as she proceeded, scarcely looking 
in his eyes, for her sense of the shameful tale made her own 
ciieeks crimson, he had time to recover his self-possession. 

When she ceased, he smiled sadly, and heaved a heavy sigh. 

“It is as I thought,” he said. “Well, so belt. You have 
judged me unheard, and I must submit.” 

“ I have not judged you,” she returned, with a certain hesita- 
tion, “ it is for God to judge you— but is it true or false?” 

“False, every word!” cried Richard, fervently. 

She started, and looked him in the face. There was nothing 
to betray him there — only a deep sorrow, and a sullen sense of 
cruel injury. 

“Christian would not lie,” she said. 

“He would do worse than lie to injure me in your esteem. 
To poison your soul against me he would invent — as he hath in- 
vented-calumnies as black as hell. Well, since he can do so 
much, let him do more. Go, set him free. Let him take my 
wretched life. I do not care now.” 

And he turned away as if to hide his face and weep. 

At this cunning piece of acting her certainty was shaken, and 
her gentle heart was touched. Could it be possible, she thought, 
that Christian, ever headstrong and prone to err, had been mis- 
led ? Then she suddenly remembered that the accusation had 


OOD AND THE MAN. 121 

come, not from idle hearsay, but from Kate Christianson’s own 
lips. 

“ His sister hath told him,” she said; “ she accused you. Oh, 
it is terrible! God must punish such cruel deeds! His mother 
lies dead in her grave, of a broken heart.” 

Then, with a heavy sob, able no longer to speak or listen, 
she descended to her cabin, and sunk upon her knees in 
prayer. 


CHAPTER XX. 

PRISCILLA MAKES HER CHOICE. 

Richard Orchardson stood on the lonely deck, and looked 
up wildly to the stars of the night, which were thickly clustering 
over the quiet sea. Despair and rage were in his soul; for he 
saw too plainly that Heaven and the girl’s heart were against 
him, and that the last chance was lost, unless he could prove 
himself innocent in Priscilla’s eyes. 

And as he looked upward, with many a muttered curse upon 
his enemy’s head, he was troubled by no qualms of conscience 
for any past misdeed, but rather experienced a gloomy feeling 
of oppression, a sullen sense of wrong. 

No man’s soul is unmixed evil; indeed, such a soul would be 
monstrous, not human; and Richard Orchardson felt that night 
that he was among the worst injured of men. He sincerely 
loved Priscilla; he had followed her over the high seas with a 
feeling very like devotion; he felt, moreover, that from day to 
day her influence wakened and kept alive what was best and 
noblest in his nature: he had almost forgotten alike the animos- 
ities and the follies of his early life; he was, in a word, in a posi- 
tion of the culprit who honestly desires to reform, and who, to 
quote the moralist, is “ going to turn over a new leaf.” Yet 
Providence itself seemed against him. Just as the prize of vir- 
tue was in his grasp, just as he was growing happy with the 
dreamy hope of sweet possession, all was changed as by a mira- 
cle, and between himself and felicity rose again the human being 
he had hated most. 

Yes, it was enough to make a man blaspheme and curse his 
stars! Why had not a kindly Providence kept this man away, 
buried him mountain deep under the earth, or sunk him to the 
bottom of the sea ? Why did he live, to darken the sunshine? 

There was danger too. So long as Christian lived, Richard 
Orchardson knew that his own life might at any moment pay 
the forfeit. As the thought crossed his mind, he shivered with 
a sickening sense of dread. 

While Orchardson was nervously pacing the after-deck, furi- 
ous with his own thoughts, yet timidly starting at every sound, 
Captain Higginbotliam was below, questioning the prisoner. 

Seated on a bunk, face to face with Christian, whose face he 
saw dimly by the light of a swinging lamp, the skipper tried his 
hand at cross-examination. 

“ Waal, how dew you feel now, John Dyson, or whatever else 
the ’tarnal your name is ? Dew you feel like fightin’, or dew you 


122 


GOD AND THE MAN. 


feel like givinpr in? I calculate you’ve come to your senses by 
this time; for there’s nothing like sitting in ship's irons for cool- 
ing a man’s idt'es.” 

“You are mistaken, captain,” answered Christian, quietly; 
“I am of the same mind still.” 

“ Then you won’t pass your word to keep afore the mast, and 
dew your work like a man, and let that young randydandy 
alone?” 

“ No.” 

“ You’re a bold hand, John Dyson, I do calculate. What's it 
all about? Come, tell me slick and squar’. About a gel? 
About young missie there in the cabin? Waal, she’s too good 
for either of you; she is, and that’s a fact; but theer, young 
randydandy's a gentleman, and you're only a common man.” 

“ Nay, I am as gently born as he,” said Christian, “ and by 
the same token of older blood. But that is neither here nor 
there. I have sworn to kill him, and kill him I shall.” 

“ Not aboard my ship,” cried the skipper, more and more as- 
tonished by the man’s quiet determination yet subdued de- 
meanor. “If you try it on aboard the Miles Standish, you’ll 
swing from the yard-arm as sure as your name's John Dyson. 
But that ain’t your name neither,” he added, reflectively; 
“young mistress calls you Christian; and a precious Christian 
you air, to be trying to take the life of a fellow-critter! Waal, 
Dyson or no Dyson, Christian or no Christian, you’ll wake and 
sleep in them irons till you change your mind.” 

So saying, the skipper withdrew, and made his way on deck. 
******* 

All that night Christian sat silent in his place, and never 
closed his eyes. Thoughts wild and terrible, stormy and sad, 
possessed him, and kept soul and body wide awake; besides, the 
physical.irritation’caused byjhe fettering irons was growing keen 
enough to drive away all sleep. So he sat moodily resigned as 
to the present, and tried to plan his conduct for the days that 
were to come. 

But the more he thought, the more moody and despairing he 
grew; for it seemed in this, as in everything else, that the hand 
of God was against him. He was sorry now that he had re- 
vealed himself; that one mad act had rendered him helpless. 
If he could only get free; if he could but stand for one day only, 
and hold within his hand the life of his enemy, be would ask 
no more! 

The hours dragged wearily on; night passed away, and the 
cold gray light of dawn streamed down from the troubled «ky, 
and found the man more pitifully sick at heart than ever. 

That day the wind freshened: most of the hands were busy on 
deck, and Christian was left alone. When the day was nearly 
spent, a flgure crept quietly into the forecastle, and a tender, 
trembling hand was laid upon his arm. Turning quickly, he 
looked straiglit into the eyes of Priscilla. 

The sight of her face startled him. She looked so pale, so 
careworn, so different from the happy, pensive little 'maiden 
whom he had known, loved, and dreamed of. Was it Priscilla 


GOD AND THE MAN, 


123 


—was he dreaming or waking? for the figure which he saw- 
crept up to his side like a docile child, kissed his hand, and 
moistened it with tears. 

“Priscilla?” 

“Yes, Christian, it is I. I have been waiting for hours to 
come to you, but could not get leave; and I dared not brave 
the good captain’s orders for fear of bringing you to still 
greater harm; but he consents to the meeting now, and I have 
come.” 

“Priscilla, dear Priscilla!” cried Christian, deeply moved, 
“what ails you that you are so pale, so strange?” 

“Nay, ’tis nothing,” said the girl, wearil}’- passing her hand 
across her eyes; “ do not speak of me, it is of you I wish to talk. 
Oh, Christian, Christian, it is breaking my heart!” 

“Breaking your heart?” 

“ The thought of you, the sight of you, wdth these cruel chains 
about you. I cannot sleep at night, and I cannot rest all day. 
Christian, I shall never know a moment’s peace till the man I 
love is free!” 

Was he awake or dreaming? Was it all true or possible? 
Could it be Priscilla w-ho spoke, wlio uttered the very words 
which he knew it was life to him to hear? Yes. she had spoken 
at last; she loved him, and for a moment the terrible darkness 
which oppressed his soul seemed to pass away. 

“ My darling!” he murmured; and Priscilla, gazing up at him 
through her tears, asked quietly: 

“Christian, am I right? your heart is not changed — you care 
for me still?” 

“Care for you! Merciful God, what a question!’’ 

“Ah, then, it is true, and I am glad. Christian, dear, dear 
Christian, as you love me, save yourself for me; give one prom- 
ise to the captain, and he will take off these cruel irons; and 
when we reach land, we will depart in peace!” 

Slie paused, but he was silent. He knew now what she would 
have; and though ids love for her was strong — ay, stronger a 
thousandfold than it had ever been — vengeance arose and gained 
the mastery. 

“ Christian, answer me. I do not ask you to forgive him, I 
only ask you to save yourself, and — yes, I will say it — to keep 
my heart from breaking.” 

“ God knows, Priscilla. I would give my life to spare you 
pain. As well ask me to give up my life, Priscilla, as to let that 
man go free.” 

“ Oh, do not sav so! God does not suffer such sins as his to 
go unpunished; but it is His work, not thine, Christian. Promise 
me, make me happy for this night at least, and all will yet be 
well.” 

She bent above his hand and kissed it again; then, with a sud- 
den impulse she cast her arms about his neck, and hid ner face 
upon his bosom. 

“My darling,” he murmured; “ Priscilla, don’t weep; what- 
ever comes to me, I know that you will be secure from harm.” 

“But you will give me your promise?” 


124 


GOD AND THE MAN. 


Ask me not to-night, Priscilla; come to me again, my dar- 
ling; but first before you go, answer me one thing.” 

“Yes.” 

“If I promise to let this man live, to forget all our house’s 
wrongs, what then — what of yourself, Priscilla ?” 

“Of myself?” 

“ Will you become my wife ?” 

She' was silent, looking down and trembling. Presently she 
answered: 

“ At least I will promise this: To marry no other living 
man.” 

“You will — you swear it?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ My darling, my own brave girl! Now go, Priscilla, for you 
are weary; but you will come to me again ?” 

“ Oh yes, I will come.” 

She laid her gentle head upon his bosom, and suffered him to 
kiss her cheek. Then, her bosom heaving with a strange new 
sense of mingled sorrow and joy, she crept quietly from the 
forecastle and left him there alone. 

Priscilla slept soundly that night, and her sleep was attended 
by pleasant dreams. She arose in the morning looking better 
and prettier than she had done for days, and asked for an early 
interview with the captain. 

This she had little difidculty in obtaining; Polypbeme, always 
taken by a pretty face, was unusually partial to Priscilla. 

He received her in his own cabin, and bent his one eye upon 
her with a more benign look than ever. How pretty she looked 
in her gray gown, with the new-born light of love in her eyes! 
She had come to plead her lover’s cause; and the excitement of 
this, coupled with a strange bashfulness caused by the memory 
of the interview of the preceding night, suffused her cheeks 
with color, and put a tremulous smile upon her lips. 

But she spoke so earnestly, and pleaded so well, that the cap- 
tain, who at first seemed obdurate, listened with some attention, 
and promised at length to go and speak with Christian again, 
and so ascertain if it w’ould be possible for him to grant PriS' 
cilia’s request. 

“ All I ask of you,” she said, “is to set him free. ’Tis cruel 
to keep him bound and a prisoner, when he hath committed no 
offense.” -- 

The captain, who guessed the reason of her pleading, smiled 
grimly. 

“ What may be his name, did you say, mistress?” 

“ Christian Christianson.” 

“ A good name for one that’s slick and squar’; but I tell you 
he ain’t slick and squar’! He’s about as bold a hand as ever 
come aboard the Miles Standish. He come aboard as a common 
sailor, and now I calculate he’s a gentleman who’s working his 
way to the gallows.” 

“He was mad with trouble and shame, and knew not what 
he did. Be kind to him, captain dear; remember with what 
measure you mete it shall be meted to you again!” 


GOD AND THE MAN. 123 

The captain rubbed his horny hand over his weather-beaten 
brow, and sat in sore perplexity. 

“’Tain’t fair for you to tackle me. I ought to do my duty, 
missie; and my duty is to keep the man in irons.” 

“No, no.” 

“ But yes. I don’t say I mean to do it, but I tell you it’s my 
duty; and never afore to-day has Ezekiel M. Higginbotham 
known what ’tis to turn away from duty. Look you here, my 
dear, if you come here with your pretty face and pleading ways, 
you’ll be the ruin o’ me. But say no more. I know what I 
know. Guess them irons hurt you more a precious sight than 
they hurt the chap that wears them. He’s a tough ’un; I take 
no account of him ; but for you, my dear — there, go right away, 
or Captain Higginbotham won’t know the meaning of duty 
soon.” 

So Priscilla, feeling that just at present nothing more was to 
be done, imprinted a grateful kiss upon the captain’s hand and 
left him. 

No sooner had she disappeared than another figure entered 
without ceremony into the captain’s cabin. This was Richard 
Orchardsou. His face was very pale, his brow lowering, his 
hand twitching nervously; he closed the door before bespoke. 

“ Captain Higginbotham,” he said, “ do you mean to do what 
the girl has asked you ? do you mean to release the ruffian who 
is in irons for assaulting me?” 

The first surprise of the meeting over, the captain glared upon 
his visitor with anything but a pleasant light in his eye. 

“Eavesdropping,” he muttered. “Young man, I calculate 
you’d be better employed in keeping your own berth, than plac- 
ing your darn’d ear at that keyhole of my cabin door. As for 
what I do, and what I don’t do, it ain’t no consarn of yours I” 

“ ’Tis my concern thus far That wretch threatened my life, 
and you heard him. You put him in irons, because you knew 
it was the only means of keeping me from harm. Let him free, 
and what is the result? I am on board ship, in mid-ocean, and 
unable to defend myself; my enemy, set free by you, will carry 
out his devilish purpose, and murder me.” 

If the expression on the captain’s face might be trusted, 
Polypheme evidently thought that the deed would be well done. 
He was a rough-and-ready old sailor, but he had knocked about 
a good deal, and so had gained no little insight into human 
nature. The little drama which was being enacted about him 
he understood by this time tolerably well. He had seen into the 
hearts of his three passengers: he adored Priscilln: and of the 
two men he certainly gave the preference to John Dyson. 
Though at first he had been much irritated at the deception 
which had been used, the man’s rough openness of manner 
appealed to him infinitely more than did the more polished con- 
duct of his enemy and rival. Still, with all his prejudices, he 
was obliged to acknowledge the truth; and the truth was, that 
if he released Christian Christianson to please Priscilla, he cer- 
tainly rendered himself liable for whatever evil consequences 
might ensue. 


126 


GOD AND THE MAN 


This reflection by no means improved the captain’s temper. 
He turned roughly upon his companion. 

“Waal, young man, have you done?” 

“ Yes; I’ve warned you, and that is enough for me. Whab 
ever you do, you must answer for before man and God, remem- 
ber that!” 

“Yes. I guess I triZ? remember it, my friend,” muttered the 
captain to himself as Orchardson moved away; “I guess I'll 
remembergevery darn’d word you’ve uttered, for I liketlie cut of 
your jib less than ever. Waal, the little girl had some sense 
anyhow, when she made sail from such as you!” 

Utterly beside himself with passi<m. Orchardson strode angrily 
to the after cabin; he had played his trump card; if that failed, 
what could be do? That the captain, in utter defiance of his 
wish.fwould dare to set Christian free he could not for a moment 
believe; but although he could force him to keep Christian in 
irons for some little time, he could not force him to forbid Pris- 
cilla those stolen i terviews to which he had already been a wit- 
ness. Yes. he had seen her throw her arms around the man’s 
neck, kiss his hand, and wet it with her tears. Here was the 
gall which was working so bitterly in his soul. He determined, 
at all hazard, to put an end to this uncertainty. If she would 
not marry him, she should not marry his enemy: nay, sooner 
than that, he himself would take the initiative, and kill the man, 
or take Iier into his arms and leap with her into the sea. 

He sought an interview with Priscilla, and at length he ob- 
tained it: but it left him more distraught and agitated than 
ever. It was clear to him that, as long as Christian lived, there 
was no room for another in Priscilla’s heart. 

Then, between jealousy, despair, and fear, the man’s nature 
grew diabolic. A thousand despeiate dreams and schemes 
flitted through his brain; until at last he was ready to draw de- 
struction upon his own head, so long as his enpmy’s destruction, 
and discomfiture were insured at the same time. 


CHAPTER XXI. 

BETWEEN TWO ELEMENTS. 

In the dead of the calm autumn night, when all on board the 
vessel except the watch were sound asleep, and when the captain 
hiii'self was snoiing comfortably in his cabin, there suddenly 
arose a loud cry of alarm forward, followed by a rush of feed 
across the decks. 

Tije next minute the mate rushed into the captain’s cabin. 

“ What’s the matter?” asked Higginbotham, leisurely opening 
his one eye. 

“ Something wrong forrard— for God’s sake come; it looks like 
fire!” 

In an instant the captain, who was only partially undressed, 
was on his feet. Of all alarms that can startle a brave sailors 
heart on the high seas, that of fire is surely the most terrible; 
and the captain, though he was bold as a lion, shook like a leaf. 


GOD AND THE HAN. 


127 


“I’m coming!” he said, beneath bis breath. “Don’t alarm 
the passengers; and, above all, keep it quiet from the women.” 

The night was dark and still, the wind strong but gentle and 
fair, the ship, under all her wealth of snowy canvas, gliding 
smoothly along from billow to billow. On the forward deck 
the crew were collected in a crowd, some half-dressed, as if 
newly startled from sleep, all pale and panic-stricken as fright- 
ened sheep, gazing down. The scuttle of the forecastle was off, 
and from the dark hole a thick black smoke was rising, with a 
heavy suffocating smell. 

“ Man the Duckets!” cried the skipper. “Rig the head pump 
and get ready the hose.” 

The men rushed to and fro obeying the order; and soon a 
steady stream of water was pouring down the scuttle. The 
main pump was kept going, and buckets of sea-water were 
passed from hand to hand and poured down; but the water 
seemed only to feed and thicken the smoke which grew mo- 
mently more sulphurous and black. 

“ Where’s the fire?” gasped the captain. “ How did it begin?” 

No one knew. All the watch on deck could tell was that 
their attention had suddenly been awakened by a burning smell, 
and the sight of smoke coming from below’^; and that the}" had 
given the alarm, and brought their comrades from their berths. 

With wild shouts and cries the men continued laboring to get 
the fire under; but it was obvious by this time that it was un- 
manageable; the dreadful smoke came thick as lava from the 
mouth of a volcano, blinding and suffocating the lookers-on. 

Suddenly, in the midst of the tumult, the captain saw a white 
figure standing near to him. and heard a clear voice calling his 
name. He turned and recogiiized Priscilla. 

“Don’t be alarmed, missie!” be said. “ Please God, we’ll get 
it under!” 

But with a very quick erv ol terror she put her hands upon 
his arm. 

“ But Christian — is he safe ? Oh, captain — he was down there 

The captain staggered as if struck by a bullet. In the terror 
and agony of the alarm, he had entirely forgotten the prisoner. 

“ Where’s John Dvson?” he cried in a voice of thunder. 

No one answered; the men looked wildly at one another; the 
skipper groaned and waved his arms madly in the air. 

“My God!, he’s below; and with them irons on, he can’t es- 
cape!” 

Then pressing forward in defiance of the smoke, he shrieked 
down the scuttle: 

“Dyson! John Dyson!” 

No answer came in words; but at that moment a tongue of 
sharp flame shot up through the scuttle, in the very heart of the 
darkness. 

Priscilla screamed and fell upon her knees. Yes, Christian 
was there, helpless to save himself, stifling, suffocating, perhaps 
already dead. 

“ Save him! save him!” she cried. 

Tlie skipper hesitated, for he had a wife and little ones asliorej 


128 


GO'D AND THE MAN. 


but in a moment his? mind was made up: tlirowing orf coat and 
waistcoat, he stood in his shirt-sleeves, facing the black columns 
of smoke. 

“If there's a man among ye, let him foller me! ’ he cried, and 
plunged into the forecastle. 

The seamen stood in teiTor, shrinking back. All at once a 
black form, naked to the waist, leaped forward and followed. 
He vvas a gigantic negro who had once been a plantation slave, 
and now occupied a subordinate position in the cook’s galley. 

Blacker and blacker rose the reek; fiercer and more frequent 
grew the jets of fire, hissing and moaning under tlie streams of 
green water that still poured steadily down. 

“Don’t stop pumping,” cried the mate; “it’s the only 
chance!” 

A hushed and horrified silence fell upon the groups of men; 
they moved to and fro silently, and but for the renewed urging 
of the mate, would have stood paralyzed with fear. 

At that moment Priscilla saw, standing close to her, the 
figure of Richard Orchardson. He was leaning against the 
foremast, as if faint and terror-stricken. 

“ Where is the captain ?” he cried to tlie mate, who stood by. 

“ Down below, looking after one of the hands.” 

“You should not have suffered him! It will cost him his 
life.” 

As Richard spoke, one wild cheer arose from tiie crew. 
Through the forecastle scuttle, amid the blinding blackness, ap- 
peared the skipper; behind him came the negro: and between 
them, supported in their powerful arms, was seen the insensible 
form of Christian Christianson. 

At this moment the flame belched upward, bright as crimson 
lightning. Scorched and blinded, the negro let go his hold; but 
with a wild cheer, mate and crew rushed forward, and dragged 
the three figures out upon the dripping deck. 

The negro fell forward on his knees, charred and wounded by 
the fire, which had licked round his limbs from below; the body 
of Christian fell like a log close to the spot where Priscilla was 
kneeling; while the little skipper, breathless and choking, but 
otherwise uninjured, began shrieking out his orders to the crew. 

The fire now shot up in steady streams, and caught the fore- 
sail, which, in a moment, became a sheet of flame, while a crack- 
ling roar ascended from below, with wilder bursts of crimson. 

It was clear now that the ship was really doomed, and that 
in a few minutes she would be on fire from stem to stern. 

“Lower the boats!” cried Captain Higginbotham. “Call the 
passengers!’’ 

There was no need to call them. They were gathered together 
in a terrified throng at the waist, looking forward in horror; but 
among them stood the tall form of the blind preacher, the crim- 
son light falling on his sightless orbs, his lips moving in solemn 
prayer. 

The boats were lowered, and floated safely, with the rowers 
in their places, in the smooth sea on the port side: water kegs 
and provisions, rapidly gathered together, were placed in each. 


GOD AND THE MAN 129 

the ladders were placed, and the captain stood above them, 
gnarding the passage. 

“ The women first!” he cried; and one by one the women were 
handed down — some to the long-boat, some to the captain’s gig. 
Then the mate ran aft witli Priscilla in his arms; he had found 
her half swooning, bending over Christian's insensible form. 

She was handed gently down; her father followed; then 
Richard and the rest. 

“ Bring along John Dyson!” said the skipper; andac the word 
Christian was carried aft, and placed in the gig at Richard’s 
very feet. 

He di<l not stir, but he was breathing and alive. 

:■;■*** t5- * * 

VNThat followed was like a frightful dream to all who had their 
senses in that dreadful hour. Almost before the boats could be 
cast free, the flames seized the entire vessel, played like fiery 
snakes around mast and rigging, caught the sails, which 
shriveled up like paper, shrieked and roared and flashed with 
scorching bloodshot beams and horrible sulphurous fume. The 
skies above, and the seas below, were crimson with the flame; 
the air was bright as with the red light of dawn, and t/ie ter- 
rified people in the boats could see each other’s faces. 

The boats pushed off from the vessel’s side. Captain Higgin- 
botham standing erect in the stern of the gig, and looking back. 
Only those who know how a sailor loves his ship can under- 
stand what sorrow filled the stout skipper’s heart as he looked 
his last at the Miles Standish. He had sailed her for years; ho 
knew every seam and stitch upon her as well as a lover knows 
the beauty-spots in his mistress’ face; and he had, moreover, a 
large pecuniary share in her ownership. Therefore, something 
like a tear glittered in his eye as he saw her drifting away be- 
tween the two elements, one consuming and destroying her 
above, the other waiting for her below In the boat with the 
captain were Mr. Sefton and Priscilla, Richard Orchardson, 
Christian, and a number of the emigrants. In tfle other boat, 
commanded by the mate, were the remainder or the emigrants 
and ship's company. 

As the gig puslied off, Christian opened his eyes, and saw- 
above him, in the red light, tw-o familiar faces — those of Pris- 
cilla and Richard Orchardson. The girl’s eyes were fixed on 
him, w atching eagerly for a sign of returning life; the moment 
he stirred, she uttered a joyful exclamation. 

But Richard Orchardson leaned over, saying in a low voice 
to the captain: 

“ Put that man in the other boat, I beseech yc n!” 

“ Nay, nay, let him stay here!” said Priscilla; “or if he goes, 
let me go too.” 

The skipper made no sign. He was still too busy looking iit 
the ship. Like a fiery portent, she w-as drifting away before 
the wind: and they w'ere already far enough away to lean on 
their oars and watch her in safety. 

Richard repeated his request. Higginbotham turned at last. 

“ Silence and keei) your place, young man!” he said, sternly. 


GOD AND THE MAN. 


i:iO 

“ This ain’t no time for foolish quarrels, now we’re altogether 
in the hands o’ God.” 

And he added, pointin( 2 : to Christian: 

“ Take off them irons!” 

Two of the crew leaned over at the word of command, and, 
setting Ciiristian free, raised him to a sitting posture, with his 
body in the bottom of the boat, and his head resting against the 
gunwale. He was breathing freely now, but was still dizzy and 
faint. 

“How are you now, John Dyson?” 

Christian turned his head, and murmured something unintel- 
ligible. Tiien he suddenly became conscious of his enemy’s 
while face gazing down upon him, and he staggered to his knees, 
and tried to spring toward him, 

“ Keep back,” cried the skipper. “ or. by thunder, over you 
go into the sea! Listen to me, John Dyson! I took you out 
of them flames, and 1 saved your life, but if you lift a finger 
ag in any soul on board this boat, to the bottom of the sea you 
go!” 

A general murmur from the boat's crew showed that this was 
no mere empty threat. Several strong hands held Christian 
back; but, struggling and panting, he pointed atOrchardson and 
cried : 

“Then speak to him! Ask him who set your ship on fire!’* 

“What d’ye mean?” said Higginbotham, startled at the 
words. 

“ 1 mean that he did it! Look at him— he cannot deny it!’* 

Pale and trembling, Richard shrunk back from Christian’s ac- 
cusing finger. 

“ The man is mad!” he gasped. 

But with a deep threatening groan, the sailors paused on their 
oars, and glared at Richard Orchardson, while the skipper cried 
in a terrible voice: 

“ Speak, 2 /o-w / If that man speaks truth, he’s spoken your 
death-sentence— he has, by the Etarnal!” 

“ It is false, false!” cried Richard, wildly. 

“You must be mad as he to listen to such an accusation. 
You know he is my mortal enemy — you know he did seek tny 
life; if any one be guilty, it is he, not I!” 

The boats were now close together, rocking on the dark bil- 
lows of the sea. 

A mile away the ship burned brightly, consumed and charred 
almost to the "water’s edge. 

Suddenly there was a rush of flame heavenward, a heavy, 
thunderous roar; tlien darkness. The remains of the ship had 
sunk like a cinder to the bottom of the sea. 

For a moment all eyes were turned that way, and everything 
was forgotten in the piteous sight. With the last glimpse of 
the vessel that had borne them so safely and so long, came a 
horrible sense of desolation. 

They were alone in a frail boat, not on the gentle Pacific, 
where calm like that which surrounded them might last for 


GOD AND THE MAN. IL'l 

(lays and days, but on the Atlantic Ocean of constant storms, 
where, if the tempest arose, no boat could hope to live. 

“Keep your places, all!’’ said the captain. “We’ll hev all 
this out soon; and if so be that ship was fired by any living 
man aboard these boats, the hand of tire Lord will point him out 
to us, never fear! But now we must shape our course, and try 
for to fall in with some passing: ship— guess it's our last chance 
out here on God Almighty’s ocean.” 


CHAPTER XXIT. 

CAST AWAY. 

As the captain uttered the words, the solemn voice of the 
blind preacher arose as if in response, and all eyes were turned 
to the tall figure, sitting with uplifted arms in the midst of the 
little lines of emigrants gathered together in the boat. 

“ We are in God’s hands, brethren. Let us pray!” 

Instantly the captain uncovered his head; the other men in 
the boat followed his example, while, in a perfectly calm voice, 
Mr. Sefton, who throughout all that night had never for a mo- 
ment lost his serenity, poured out an extempore prayer for help 
and guidance. When it was ended, the captain stood up in the 
stern, and in a loud voice gave his commands to the mate, who 
was steering the companion boat. 

It was arranged that the two boats should keep each other in 
sight as well as possible; but that, should any unforeseen cir- 
cumstance come to separate them, attempt should still be made in 
either case to keep in the line of passing ships. To make for 
any land was impossible; they were almost in mid-ocean. The 
only hope was that, before a tempest arose, they might be 
sighted from the deck of some vessel, and saved. 

Only he wlio has been shipwrecked, and cast away on the 
great ocean in an open boat, can realize the hopelessness and 
weariness of the situation; but the tale is one “ twice told;” the 
circumstances too familiar and common for detailed recapitula- 
tion. 

It had been about midnight when the first alarm of “ fire ” was 
given; and now, within less than one short hour, the ship had 
vanished in the consuming flame, and they were all homeless 
wanderers on the deep. The night was dark and chill. It 
needed a keen lookout to keep the other boat in view; but ever 
and anon the crew of one shouted to the crew’ of the other; and 
the voices had a strange supernatural sound. 

Dawn broke at last, with chilly gleams of wdnd and rain. The 
sun came out of the sea like an orange globe, and the light crept 
from ripple to ripple with faint prismatic rays, till the whole 
stretch of ocean was dimly lit. Then they saw' on every side of 
them, whichever way they turned, the darkly heaving horizon 
line: but no sail. The light came on haggard faces, worn with 
waiting and w’atching. At the tiller sat the captain, quiet and 
resolute, with a tender eye for the women, and a cheery word, 
w'hen it was needed, for the men. Near to him w'ere Priscilla 
and her father; the latter w’ith his eyes closed and his hands 


133 


GOD AND THE MAN. 


clasped, as if praying in sleep; the former very wan and sad, 
with her eyes ever turned toward Christian, who sat watching her 
with bloodshot eyes from the bottom of the boat. Priscilla saw 
now with horror that his face was blackened as with smoke and 
fire, that his dress was smoke- covered and ragged, and one of 
his arms, which was hare to the elbow, badly burnt. 

Since the captain liad spoken in stern reproach, while order- , 
ing the prisoner’s irons to be knocked off, Christian had scarcely 
stirred; and, as if to keep his spirit under sweet control, looked 
only at Priscilla, and never once turned his eyes again toward 
his enemy. Richard Orchardson sat, deathly pale, opposite to 
Priscilla, separated from Christian by several men and women. 

In the agony of those terrible hours, he seemed to have grown 
years older; so pinched and gra}'^ were his features, so lifeless 
and dead his mien. 

All that day the boats sailed on quietly together; nothing 
happened of any consequence to break the dark monotony of the 
situation. 

Toward nightfall the wind rose slightly; and as the boat be- 
came awkward to run in the rough sea, a small sail was set 
forward, to give her comfortable steering way and keep her 
trim. She was heavily laden with her human freight, and 
needed careful management, to avoid foundering in the rough 
‘1 jumble ” that now began to rise. 

Darkness fell; and in its midst the sound of the wind and the 
surging of the sea became doublj' dreadful. Cries and moans 
began to rise from the women; and even the men uttered terri- 
fied exclamations from time to time. 

But when the terror was highest, the voice of the blind preacher 
was heard again, enjoining prayer and trust in the Lord who 
made the sea. This man’s courage and trust were so absolute, 
the moral influence of his presence was so great, that the brave 
skipper, who was bold as a. lion, but less serenely pious, 
looked at him in growing admiration. Nor did he less admire 
the daughter, who emulated her father’s resignation, and at 
his command led the voices of their people in a tender evening 
hymn. 

And still Christian Christianson kept silent in his place, sub- 
dued by the sidemnity of the situation, and tranquilized for 
the time being by the serene presence of her he so passionately 
loved. 

****-»** 

On the morning of the second day, which broke calm and 
cold, with gusts of fitful wind on a short chopping sea, the 
look-out man in the captain’s boat suddenly pointed to the 
horizon, and cried. “ A sail!” Almost simultaneously they 
heard a cry from the companion boat, which was rising ani 
falling a quarter of a mile away, and saw a man standing erect 
in the bow, straining his eyes toward the same point in the 
horizon. 

And sure enough, all eyes, turning one way, beheld afar off, 
half lost in flying foam and vapor, now seen, now almost blurred 
from vision, a dark spot against the background of a gray 


OOD AND THE MAN. 


133 


daylight— a silhouette, like the sail of a small boat, which, being 
scrutinized by experienced men, resolved itself presently into 
the black top sail of a ship. 

A wild cry went up from the poor shipwrecked folk, and all, 
as with one accord, turned to look at the captain. 

His eye was fixed on the distant object, and his face was bale - 
ful and inexpressive even to stoniness; but his big heart was 
beating fast, and it was not without an effort that he concealed > 
his agitation. j 

Priscilla was the first to break the silence. i 

“ Captain dear, is it a ship?” 

He knew that all were watching and waiting for his answer, 
but he kept his eye still fixed on the distant object, and replied 
without turning his head: 

“Give me time, missie, give me time! Yes, ’tis a ship, sure 
enough!” and then as another wild cry went up from the boat, 
be added, in a deep, clear voice, “ Yes, ’tis a snip, but what of 
that? Wait a bit, forrard there! It’s one thing for to see a 
ship, and another thing to be seen b^a ship: and even once seen 
’tis another thing to be ptc/ced by a ship. Don’t holler yet, 
but wait and watch!” 

They waited patiently enough, because every moment brought 
the gladsome apparition nearer. 

Daylight flamed behind it, while, black and portentous, sail 
after sail arose, and finally, the black hull itself. Then, as the 
light increased, and the wind came out of the light, and glad- 
dening ripples danced everywhere upon the morning sea, they 
saw a goodly brig in full sail bearing down toward them as fast 
as she could fly — sailing westward, with windward light behind 
her. She was coming so straight for them, though doubtless 
they were as yet unseen, that there was no need to make any 
signal, save the little shred of sail, or to give any other sign of 
distress. They must and should be seen, that was certain. 

With that certainty, came another deepening terror. 

What could the bark be, and what human hearts did it con- 
tain ? Perhaps it would pass cruelly by, without lending a suc- 
coring hand; for in those days, more than these, there were 
many devils afloat on the high seas. Perhaps those who man- 
ned her were wild and deaerate men of some foreign nation, 
who might carry them away to untold sorrows, or nameless tor- j 
tures of captivity. 

“ What dew you make of her, William Long?” cried the cap- 
tain. addressing the look-out in the bow, an old sailor of mighty 
experience. “ Is she a Yankee or a Britisher? a merchantman 
or privateer ?” 

William Long’s opinion was that she looked too small for a 
merchantman, and too squat for a privateer; that she was not a 
Yankee nor yet a Britisher, and was, if anything, a petty trader 
from some foreign port. 

Hand over hand, the brig approached them; and at last they 
could plainly perceive, from the commotion on her decks, that 
they were seen. Suddenly there was a puff of smoke at her 
side, followed by a sharp report; she had fired a gun, 


131 


QOD AND THE MAN. 


“ Ready there!” cried the captain, while his face brightened. 
“ She’s going to pick ns up.” 

Down she came, with dark faces crowding at her side. Then, 
to the huge joy of all these shipwrecked wayfarers, she squared 
her yards, came round on the wind, and waited for the boats to 
run alongside. 

“A Dutchman, by the Etarnal!” cried the skipper, delighted. 
“ Boys, give her a cheer!” 

Straightway sailors and passengers cheered together, and the 
cheer was echoed instantly from the other boat. In a few min- 
utes more the captain had run his boat alongside, and one by 
one the wayfarers sprung on deck. 

Facing them, on the deck of the brig, was a squat figure in a 
red cotton nightcap, smoking an enormous wooden pipe, and 
surrounded by a crew of squat pigmies, in red cotton nightcaps 
too. His face was broad, weather-beaten, and good-humored, 
and he gave a friendly grunt as Higginbotham approached, and 
seized him by the hand. 

An excited colloquy ensued, but as neither skipper understood 
a word of the language of the other, it led to no very definite 
result; until one of the Dutch seamen, stepping forward at a 
nod, from his skipper, offered his services as interpreter. It 
then turned out that the bark was the Anna, of Rotterdam, 
commanded by Jam Brock, of the same city, and outward 
bound for Halifax. Nova Scotia. The accommodation on board 
■was limited, especially in the after portions of the vessel, but 
such as it was, t’ne wayfarers were welcome to share it — as well 
as the rough fare of the ship’s crew, of which the piece de resist- 
ance was (as after experience proved) the hardest of Dutch 
cheese. 

But Captain Higginbotham was enraptured. Again and again, 
he wrung his brother skipper’s hand, and then, turning to his 
own passengers and crew, all of whom were now on the Anna’s 
deck, he loudly congratulated them on having fallen into the 
hands of a man and a brother. 

The rescued people were distributed over the ship, the crew of 
the Miles Stand ish, including Christian, going forward to the 
forecastle, the emigrants finding tolerable quarters amidships, 
while cramped accommodation was found in the captain’s 
quarters for Priscilla and h(?r father, Richard Orchardson, and 
Captain Higginbotham. Priscilla had a little cabin in the poop 
all to herself; it was very tiny, and smelt horribly of bilge-water 
and tobacco; but once alone there, she fell upon her knees and 
thanked God for His great mercies, and for her fortunate escape. 

CHAPTER XXITI. 

ICE-DRIFT FROM THE POLAR SEA. 

Captain Higginbotham, surveying his new friends leis- 
urely with an eye of profound experience, soon discovered that 
good seamanship was by no means the cliaracteristic of either 
skipper or crew; that the former spent a good deal of his time 
m his berth, pipe in mouth, under the influence of the Indian 


GOD AND THD ^fA^\ 


ir> 


narcotic anti his national liquor, and that the latter sailed the 
ship pretty much as sweet fancy taught them. Fortunately, 
the wind was light and fair, the ship a tough and tight one; 
and for the rest, everybody was grimy, greasy, and very good- 
humored. 

During the evening following their rescue, while the ship was 
skipping along quietly before the same steady easterly wind, 
Higginbotham strolled forward, and saw Christian sitting alone 
on a coil of rope, with his head resting against the rail. 

“ Waal, John Dyson?” 

Christian looked up without replying. He had washed away 
the traces of smoke and blood, and his face looked white and 
strange. 

“ Hev you come to your cool senses. John Dyson,” continued 
the skipper, after a pause, “ or air you still a-hatching mis- 
chief ? I want to talk to you a bit. Out theer in the boat you 
said some one set my poor old ship afire ?” 

“ I said it, and I knew it.” 

“ Speak out your mind. ’Tain’t for what I lost in her, though 
I had my share in her timber and her cargo, but Lord knows I 
loved the old ship, and a bit of my heart went dowm in her when 
she sunk like a cinder into the sea. Speak out, then, John 
Dyson! Dow you think she had foul play ?” 

“ I said it, and I think it.” 

“ Waal, now, your reasons— come ?” 

“ I will tell you what happened before the alarm was given. 
I had fallen asleep, sitting almost as you see me now. Suddenly 
I wakened, and saw. close to me, soinething like a man’s shape. 
It was dark, but light enougli to see that. Then, before I could 
stir, or cry, or even think, I smelt the stench o’ fire, and saw 
black fumes of smoke rising all around. I tried to spring up, 
bur my irons held me fast from flying, yet I shrieked to them 
sleeping around me, and they gave the alarm.” 

“ Is that all, John Dyson?” 

“Is it not enough? Your good ship perished by fire, and he 
kindled it. The moment I saw his face in the boat, the moment 
I met his eyes. I knew ’twas he and no other. May hell con- 
sume him! May he answer for it in tenfold flame, when God 
judgeth quick and dead!” 

The captain’s face was black as a thunder-cloud as he list- 
ened. He said nothing inore, but stood in gloomy meditation; 
then, muttering to himself ominously, he went aft, and gazed 
darkly over the vessel’s side. 

But the more he thought, the less method he could find in 
Christian’s mad accusation. He knew the hatred between the 
two men, and he knew likewise how one would spare no pains 
to heap confusion upon the other. Still doubting and wonder- 
ing, he sought out Richard Orchardson, and openly taxed him 
with the infernal deed — prepared, if he confessed his guilt, to 
hand him over to the swift vengeance of the shipwrecked crew. 

To his surprise Richard assumed a high tone of indignant pro- 
testation; loudly proclaimed his innocence, and demanded to be 
brought face io face with his accuser; and finally stormed and 


186 


GOD AND THE MAN. 


wept so like an innocent man foully taxed and troubled, tliat 
the captain was completely thrown upon his beam ends. 

“ In the name of God,” cried Richard at last, “ what end 
could I serve by such deviltry ? The man did threaten my life, 
and you had him in irons; nay, you yourself could see that he 
was mad for blood as any wild beast. Do you think, man, that 
I was as mad as he? Did I hold ray life so cheap, and care so 
little for the beloved companions of my voyapje, that I sought 
to compass my own death, and theirs, by an act worthy of yon- 
der madman, not of me ? I am a gentleman of good birth, law’- 
loving and law-abiding. How dare you blacken me so with 
your base suspicion! How dare you blight my good fame, at 
the whisper of a jail-bird, an outcast without a name!” 

This bluster overcame the good captain, who indeed saw no 
tittle of rational evidence to connect the speaker with the loss of 
his ship. On the very face of it, it seemed utterly improbable 
and inscrutable. Of all men living, Richard Orchardson seemed 
least likely to imperil his own life so insanely. 

So Higginbotham walked forward, and found Christian sitting 
as he had left him, like the very image of despair. 

“ You are a liar, Jolm Dyson!” he said, between his set teeth, 
and turned savagely away. 

Meantime, a strange tumult was going on in Christian’s soul. 
Though his body was possessed b}- a kind of brooding torpor, 
w’hicli caused him to remain for hours in the same position, 
like a shape of stone, his thoughts w’ere tempestuous enough, 
but confused and broken, like cloud- pljantoms reflected in a 
mere. 

His sister’s shame, his mother’s death, his own wild flight 
from home, his life on shipboard, his interview with Priscilla, 
bis attack upon his enemy, the fire by night, the sudden ship- 
wreck— all seemed like a troubled dream; and, lo! there he sat, 
baffled, disregarded, no nearer vengeance thatfc,before. 

For despite the holy influence of his love for Priscilla, the 
thought of vengeance remained. To forget that, under any 
temptation, would have been to forget his father and his mother, 
all the sufferings of their house, and, above all, his sister’s wrong. 
Not even Priscilla, not even the prospect of her love and divine 
compassion, could or should obliterate those memories. He had 
sworn an oath, and he meant to keep it. Richard Orchardson 
should die. 

If his cons' i?nce needed stronger justification, it was found in 
his firm belief that Orchardson had fired the ship. He had no 
doubt whatever that this w^as so, though he had no proof that 
wmuld satisfy any unprejudiced individual. Yes, Orchardson 
was guiltv: another black record in the calendar of his hateful 
life. 

And Christian, though he s<?emed tamed and unresolved i.>r 
the time being, was merely accumulating venom and w'atchiug 
till the time came to strike. He saw little or nothing of his 
enemy: for Captain Higginbotham had contrived to make his 
brotlier captain understand that “ Jolm Dyson ” was a dangerous 


GOD and the HAN. 137 

lunatic, to be strictly watched, and, abore all, never suffered to 
come aft on any pretense wliatever. 

On first receiving this warning, the Dutch captain was for 
clapping him into irons immediately, but at Priscilla’s interces- 
sion he refrained, and merely gave his crew orders to knock the 
madman on the head if necessary. So Christian found himself 
avoided like a leper, as dangerous,” by the crew of both ves- 
sels. The only friendly face among them was that of the gigan- 
tic negro who had assisted to rescue him from the fire. This 
poor black had taken a fancy to him from the first, and still 
showed his sympathy to the best of his power. 

To Christian, nursing his wrath an i sorrow before the mast, 
Priscilla came once and again. One of their conversations may 
be taken as a sample of several. 

“ Oh, Christian, God is good. Let us pray to Him together.” 

“ Nay, I am not one of the praying kind.” 

“But think of His great goodness and mercy. He held 
us in the hollow of His hand, and yet He spared us; think of 
tliat.” 

‘‘ 1 think rather that He suffered us to be cast away, through 
the device of a devil.” 

“ Alas! therein do you show the madness of your hate. You 
should be just even to your enemy. Mr. Orchardson is innocent 
as I of tiie evil you cruelly lay at his door.” 

Christian looked up with a strange expression. 

“ Then the devil hath been again at your ear! Priscilla, it 
wull be ever so, until lie is silent forever.” 

“ That threat again, and that look which hath made me heart- 
sick so often! Oh, Christian, I fear you. He is right— you are 
mad indeed.” 

“ An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, saith the Lord.” 

“But we may not take the Lord’s vengeance into our own 
wicked hands. Christian, promise me to forego your venge- 
ance, or ” 

“Go on.” 

“ Or I shall never again call you friend of mine.” 

That gentle w^arning did not move him now, for all the sul 
len evil in his nature was awake. So he answered in a low 
voice: 

“ Even that will not change me. My mother cannot sleep m 
her grave, my sister cannot look in the face of men, till they are 
avenged .” 

So she left him, returning sad and tearful to her cabin. 

Now, in her pretty anxiety to bring those two warring hearts 
together, she deepened the hate of both; since Richard Orchard- 
son was watching lier interviews wuth his rival; and Christian 
in his turn knew that she turned back from them to the other's 
counsel. Knowing Christian’s violent disposition, and his read- 
iness to think all evil against his enemy, she did not for a 
moment entertain his terrible accusation of arson; indeed, the 
fact that he had made it to some extent hardened her heart 
against him— it seemed of a malignity so diabolic. 

And during those days after the rescue Richard Orchardson 


138 


GOD AND THE MAN. 


was so martyrlike and so sad, saying so little in repronch, look- 
ing so much; that more than once, meeting his eyes she sighed 
and spoke to him gently, till some gentle answer came. In her 
heart she said: “ Both these men love me, and one metliought I 
loved; but I would trust my fate to neither; for the one 1 could 
have chosen is dangerous and jealous to madness, and the other 
is too weak and full of suspicion.” Often in her heart she wished 
she were free of both. 

But our tale must not linger with the thoughts of Priscilla 
Sefton, nor with the hopes and fears, the jealousy and hate, of 
the two men who had followed her across these waters. Strange 
events were to happen, to perplex still further the relations of 
all three; and tliese events were to be determined by the fort- 
unes or misfortunes of the ship tiiat was bearing them west- 
ward, to some undiscovered fate. 

***-»•»** 

For several days the fair wind lasted. Then the vessel passed 
into a great sea-mist, covering troubled tracks of windless calm. 

The moment this mist was reached, it became intensely cold; 
the sails and cordage became stiff with frost, the decks slippery 
with ice. Looking over the side, they saw small fragments of 
broken ice floating upon the sea. Then it became dark; so dark 
that all day long the ship’s lights were kept burning, and the 
fog-horn loudly blowing. 

At mid day, the look-out man sung out that he could hear 
something like the sound of waters surging, and could see the 
gleams of breakers. The Dutch skipper rushed forward, and 
immediately shouted out to the helmsman an order to “ keep 
away.” The order was obeyed only just in time; and as the 
vessel swept round before the faint wind, all saw distinctly the 
surges thundering round a gigantic iceberg, which rose like a 
mountain in the midst of the sea. The next minute it was 
swallowed up in black fog. 

It was now evident that they were in a position of some peril. 
In anticipation of north- ^^ est winds, which often prevailed at 
that season of the year, the}’^ had steered too northerly a course, 
and had consequently fallen in with drifting ice. To what ex- 
tent they were surrounded, it was as yet impossible to tell. 
Shortening sail, and keejang a sharp look-out, they crept on 
through the darkness, waiting for the mist to clear. 

All at once the wind began to rise, blowing in fitful squalls 
from the south-east, but almost simultaneously the mist rose. 
Then they saw, by the light of a sullen sunset, vvith great bars 
of orange and red, like the skin of some wild beast, the sea on 
every side of them cov’ered with loose bergs of all sizes drifting 
southw’ard; some sparkling with all tiie colors of the rainbow, 
others dark and shadowy as floating blocks of cloud. 

Priscilla stood on deck, and gazed wonderingly qn the strange 
sight, thinking only of its loveliness and noveltv. 

But Captain Higginbotham, who stood near her, was other- 
wise moved; for he saw in the neighborhood of drifting ice, and 
in the rapidly lising wind, a new danger— nov easily to be 


GOD AND THE MAN. 139 

avoided by the Dutch skipper, for whose seamanship be had by 
this time acquired a supreme contempt. 

“ Look, captain dear!” cried Priscilla. “Are they not beauti- 
ful ? Tiiat one is like a great church, with blue vaults beneath; 
and a figure like an acgel on the threshold; and that other like 
a far ship, with sails of crystal and masts of marble, crov/ded 
with folk in shining robes, singing, ‘Holy, Holy!’ like the hosts 
in the Pilgrim's tale.” 

“ They’re pretty enough to look at, missie.” returned the cap- 
tain, “ but nasty custotJiers to come agin’ when a sliip’s making 
nine knots an hour. I’d rather hev tlieir room than their com- 
pany, anyhow,” 

So saying, he turned and joined his brother-skipper, who was 
standing, pipe in mouth, on the poop, and regarding tlie bergs 
with a grin of total stupidity and unconcern. Conversation with 
him was impossible, and Higginbotham, after in vain trying to 
discover what course he meant to steer, left him, with an ex- 
clamation expressive of supreme disgust. 

Night fell, but fortunately there was a moon, showing itself 
from time to time tl)rough drifts of flying cloud, and shedding, 
even when itself unseen, a faint atmospheric light. As the wind 
was still high, it was soon necessary to shorten more and more 
sail, until at last the ship was almost bare. At last it was de- 
termined to heave-to, which she did for the greater part of the 
night, with her head to the east and her maintopsail to the 
mast. 

Ail night the icebergs loomed on every side, sometimes coming 
so unpleasantly close that a man might almost have leaped upon 
them from the slippery decks. The sea all round, far as eye 
could behold, was black with their shadows. 

It was soon obvious, however, that they were not a portion of 
any large pack, but merely a fleet of loose floes broken off and 
cast adrift by souie storm or other convulsion of nature, and 
before daybreak the nearest was several miles away. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

THE STORM. 

But with daybreak came a new alarm. 

The wind died almost completely aw’ay; but a tremendous 
swell w’as setting from the south-east, and in the same directio.n 
the gates of dawn were blocked by huge masses of black and 
purple cloud, layer on layer, flattened one upon another, w^hile 
out of the dense mass rose a black vapor, like smoke from a 
funnel. 

The Yankee skipper stood amidships, with William Long and 
several other of his own seamen, looking to the eastw’ard. 

“What dew you make of them clouds, William Long?” 

The sage addressed stuck his quid into the corner of his cheek, 
spat leisurely over the vessel’s side, drew his shirt cuff across his 
mouth, and "then replied; 

“Gale o’ wind from the sou’-east.” 

• Right you air, William Long. It’s been brew’ing hell nnd 


140 


GOD AND THE MAN. 


thunder in that there witch's caldron ever since last night, and 
now though it ought to bo briglit dav, there ain't enough light 
to read a compass by; and d’ye hear that f’ 

As he spoke, there came from the heaving swell a heavy roar 
like thunder— tlie voice of the sea itself, ominously moaning. 
It was curiously dark; a troubled sense was in the air, 

“ Like that strange silence which precedes the storm, 

And shakes the forest leaves without a breath.” 

And novv far away, between the layers of cloud, strange streaks 
of light were running like quicksilver. Whether they were 
day beams trying to break through the darkness, or flashes of 
sheet-lightning, it was difficult to tell. 

Meantime the brig was rolling and tossing on the black bil- 
low’s like a thing in pain; her cordage creaking, her sails flap- 
ping with artillery-peals, her decks opening and shutting with 
the strain. 

The waves came up smooth and unbroken, like black mount- 
ains rolling down to ingulf the vessel which was still hove to 
under the lightest of sail. 

Just then the Dutch skipper appeared on deck, and in a loud 
voice gave his orders'. As the crew flew to obey him, Higgin- 
botham turned to his own men with a look of horror. 

“Look at that!” he exclaimed, “ If the ’tarnal Dutch lubber 
isn't going to clap on canvas!” 

Such was indeed the case. Springing up the masts and into 
the rigging, the Dutchmen were already busy preparing to set 
sail. 

Higginbotham rushed aft, confronted the skipper, and pointed 
eagerly to windward. The skipper smiled and nodded, and 
discharging a thick volume of smoke from his throat, gave an 
approving grunt. As he did so. tiie air was filled with an 
ancient and horrible smell composed of rank tobacco and 
Schiedam. 

Pale wuth rage. Higginbotham secured the services of the 
sailor who had previously acted as interpreter, and with his aid 
expressed an opinion that no one but a madman w’ould unfurl 
a yard of canvas in the face of such weather-signs as confronted 
them. 

Thus warned, the Dutch skipper smiled again, but more dis- 
agreeably. Then he said (through the interpreter) that he knew 
his own business. There was no danger: only a’ nice little fair 
wind coming out of the morning red. He knew’ how’ to sail a 
ship better than any “Englander," and lie was afraid of noth- 
ing. Finally, he expressed a request, which the interpreter did 
not translate, that Higginbotham would go below — either in a 
narrow sense into the ship’s cabin, or in the broad sense to a 
^ place that may be nameless, very far below indeed. 

Scarcely had the Dutch skipper finished his speech, when a 
gigantic wave, lifting up the vessel like a cork into the air. 
swept him off his legs, and rolled him into the lee scuppers. 
There he remained, without attempting to rise, either because 
the drink had mastered him, or because the shock had stunned 
him. 


GOD AND THE MAN. 


141 


Almost siuiviltaneously, the clouds to eastward opened, a 
flash like sulphurous lightning lit up the dark heavens, and the 
ocean, a league to windward, appeared as white as milk. 

In a moment, Higginbotham sprung on the poop, and shrieked 
to his own men: 

“All liands to shorten sail. If the Dutchmen interfere, 
chuck ’em into the seal Quick, for your lives! ’ 

Obeying the order as one man, the crew of the Miles Standish 
sprung up into the rigging. One glance to windward showed 
even the Dutch sailors that it was a matter of life and death. 
The storm was almost upon them, in all its fury. 

Scarcely were the chief sails roughly stowed, than, with a 
shriek and a roar, the wind struck the vessel, while the water 
beneath and around her foamed to boiling white. The bare 
masts bent like reeds, while the topsail, not being quite secured, 
burst loose, flapped, and was torn to ribbons in a moment and 
blown away. For a time the vessel hung broadside, with her 
lee bulwarks under, and the sea almost up to the main hatch. 

Without a word Higginbotham sprung to the tiller-ropes, 
hurled the helmsman aside, took the tiller, and januned the 
helm bard over. After a long struggle, the brig began to pay 
off; then, like a canoe shooting the rapids of some mighty river, 
she swept away before the blast. 

Behind them, a black rift opening as the mouth of some 
gigantic caldron, belched forth fire and water; fire and water 
of the surcharged thunder clouds, piled mass after mass upon 
each other; while in one portion of the night- black east, the va- 
pors rolled open and showed the bloodshot sun, glaring like a 
rayless eye upon the desolation. The rain covered the deck in 
torrents, and on the slippery waters, black from above and green 
from below, the lightning played in blinding beams. 

Meantime the ship, blown bodily as if in the air between wind 
and water, smothered, choking, struggling, shrieking, like a 
living thing, the black clouds looming down upon her, the ter- 
rific seas surging up to destroy her, flew before the blast. 

In the fury of this first onset, several men were washed over- 
board, and the Dutch skipper, who had risen to his feet, freu- 
ziedly gesticulating, would have followed their example, had he 
not been blown against the backstays, and flapped there like a 
limp and dripping rag. ^ 

“ The sea is rising!” cried Higginbotham. “ There, forward! 
reef the foresail and set it!” 

Assisted by the Diitcli crew, his men obeyed him. The sea 
was rising indeed, and threatening to drown the vessel outright; 
but thanks to the foresail, they managed to heave her to for a 
little time, and rising and sinking in the tremendous sea. and 
lying over again almost to the main hatch, the brig fronted the 
tempest. 

Below, Priscilla was on her knees by the side of her blind 
father; and in the midst of the frightened people, Richard 
Orchardson stood clinging to his berth, as white as death. 

Suddenly there was a blinding flash, a thunderous roar. Th« 
vessel was covered in flying foam and fire, like flame and smoke. 


142 GOD AND THE MAN. 

Then they saw the foresail shriveling up like a .shred of cotton, 
and blowing away into the darkness; while the vessel, with a 
wild lurch, came broadside to the sea. 

For a minute it seemed as if all was over. She sank like a log 
into the trough of the sea, and one huge billow swept her from 
stem to stern, carrying away half a dozen shrieking lives. But 
again Higginbotham, though the water drenched him from 
head to toot, jammed the helm hard over, and again with a 
shock like an earthquake running through her wooden frame, 
she paid off, and rushed away with the rushing waves before 
the blast. 

There was now nothing for it but to let her run, and trust to 
chance. 

Fortunately there was a ragged piece of foresail still remain- 
ing, and this served to keep her from broaching to. Higgin- 
botham clung to the tiller with set teeth, though again and 
again the water, washing over tlie stern, smothered him and 

tried to drag him from his post. 

******* 

Two long days and nights that gale lasted, blowing the ship 
they knew not whither, but sweeping her still in a northerly 
direction. Even after the first day’s storm ceased, and the great 
masses of cloud behind them began to move and come up 
slowly, like serried legions of some stormy host, the wind in- 
creased in violence, the sea still rose, and no sun w’as seen. 

But on the morning of the second day, after they had flown 
at lightning speed hundreds upon hundreds of miles, the sun 
burst out through flying billows of cloud, and poured a faint 
yellow sulphurous spume upon the tossing sea. 

The clouds now passed overhead swifter than the ship flew, 
and by that sign they knew that the force of the gale was 
broken. A new foresail was now bent on, and the vessel was 
able to “ heave-to” comfortably, and w’jiit for the storm to sub- 
side. 

“It’s about time it did break!” muttered Captain Higgin- 
botham to himself, as he glared with Cyclopean eye eastward. 
“ If we had kep' on running a day and a night longer, guess we 
should hev come right jam smash ag’in the north pole!” 

Now that the danger seemed over, the Dutch skipper was at 
first inclined to be quarrelsome, and to put his brother skipper 
in irons for having mutinously taken possession of the manage- 
ment of the ship, but on reflection, after moistening his anger 
with a bottle of Schiedam, he thought it better to swear eternal 
friendship — which he did, with many hand-shakes and wild 
gesticulations. 

While things were at this pass, Priscilla and her father tried 
to come on deck, accompanied by Richard Orchardson. During 
the fury of the gale, none of the passengers had been allowed 
to leave their quarters below; and now, at Higginbotham’s so- 
licitation, they did not come beyond the cabin companion. 

Peeping from thence, Priscilla saw a knot of sailors gathered 
forward, and among tliem the powerful form of Christian. 

During the tempest he had worked hard with the rest, never 



GOD AND THE MAN. 


m 


BliriDking from any post of danger, and again and again putting 
liis life in peril. Tn tliewild tumult of the elements, l)e seemed 
for a time to forget bis mad purpose— and indeed lie did so, for 
to think at all was difficult at such a season; all a man could do 
was struggle with all his bodily strength against overpowering 
odds, oblivious of all save the fierce, almost mechanical fight 
for life. 

The light brightened from yellow to pale pink, and the seas 
came along with slowly surceasing force. Before mid-day, the 
gale died away into a strong breeze and it was possible to set 
easy sail. 

Tlie vessel, still dripping and struggling like a winged bird, 
had bowled along swiftly for several hours, when a cry ar^^es 
forward of “ Land ahead!” 

And sure enough, far away on the port bow, they saw the 
first loom of something black, like a low-lying bank of cloud. 

An order was immediately given to take soundings, but no 
bottom was got with two hundred fathoms of line. 

“ Sure enough it looks like land,” said Captain Higginbotham, 
while the order was given to stand off, as close to the wdnd as 
possible. 

Presently, when the sun began to sink in the western heavens, 
its light flamed red on what had at first been taken for land, 
and showed what looked like a mountainous island, forty or 
fifty miles away. At that moment the old sailor, William Long, 
strolled aft. 

“ Waal, William Long, what dew you make of that land?” 

William Long clung to the backstay, and went through the 
usual formality of clearing his mouth of tobacco juice before 
he spoke. 

“ I make this of it, captain. It's no more land than this here 
brig is land. It’s an iceberg, captain! and look'ee yonder!’ 
(and as he spoke he lifted his right hand and swept the horizon 
to the north). “ If that ain’t the iceblink^ I’ve never been in 
these latitoodes afore.” 

Far away along the northern horizon line there was a long 
strip of glimmering white, with occasional patches of dull yel- 
low and quivering blue. William Long was an old wdialer, and 
recognized the phenomenon in a moment. 

Scarcely had he spoken, when there came, in corroboration of 
his words, a sudden crash, as if the vessel had struck upon some 
sunken rock. The brig trembled through all her timbers; and 
looking over the side the seamen saw large fragments of broken 
ice bobbing up to the surface on each quarter. They had struck 
against a portion of submerged ice, and shivered it to frag- 
ments. 

There could be no doubt now that they were in dangerous 
waters. If any further proof were wanting, they could have 
told the close proximity of icefields by the rapidly falling tem- 
perature. 

Tlie sheets were stiffening, and flakes of frost, thin as gossa- 
mer, were forming on the sails. 


144 


GOD AND THE MAN. 


CHAPTER XXV. 

BESET BY THE ICE. 

Rapidly taken observations showed them that they were 
somewhere in latitude 50 degrees, longitude 55 degrees, and 
tliat consequently tlie iron-bound coast of Labrador could not 
be far away. Tempestuous weather and Dutch seamanship bad 
carried them out of their course many hundred miles. 

Fortunately the wind now changed into the lightest of 
breezes, and they were able to steer a more southerly course; 
but again and again, after nightfall, they passed masses of 
floating ice, and several times struck with wild concussion 
against drifting fragments, but without serious damage to the 
Anna’s oaken frame. 

All hands of both crews were now on the- alert; two men 
stood at the helm, extra hands were on the look-out, and the 
Dutch captain directed the ship's movements from the fore- 
castle deck, passing the word aft to “ port ” or “ starboard ” the 
1 elm as occasion rose, and thus avoiding fatal collisions. 
Despite all these precautions, the night was so dark, and the 
weather now so thick, that they were more than once in ex- 
treme danger. 

When day broke again, they found themselves surrounded on 
every side by floating bergs and fields, with one green passage, 
about two miles broad, of comparatively open water. But right 
ahead to the westward was a frowning battlement of blackness 
wliich looked like land. 

* * -sf * * * * 

Meantime, the passengers below were faring but badly. Mr. 
Sefton was prostrate in his berth with symptoms much resem- 
bling those of low fever, and Priscilla, worn with sickness and 
anxiety, looked the merest ghost of herself. 

The foul air of the cabin, the coarse food, and the incessant 
vibration, had all told upon her delicate frame. Richard Or- 
chardson was unceavsing in his attentions to both father and 
daughter, but he too seemed succumbing to the hard and perilous 
^Ife aboard ship. 

To them presently came the Yankee captain, and at his solici- 
tation Priscilla went on deck. Scarcely had she left the cabin, 
however, and come out into the chilly morning air, than she 
fainted away. Richard caught her in his arms, and gently car- 
ried her back to the cabin. 

Scarcely had they disappeared, than the tall form of Chris- 
tian, ragged, haggard, and wild, crept from behind the main- 
mast, and seemed about to follow, when Captain Higginbotiiam 
interposed. 

“Waal, John Dyson?” he cried, sternly. “What dew you 
want here?” 

“She is dying,” answered Christian. “He hath killed her. 
Yes, it is his doing.” 

“ Keep back, John Dyson. I have told you often, and I tell 
you now, your place is afore the mast.” 


GOD AND THE 


115 


“And I tell you that we are lost, and that we are lost through 
him. He fired your ship — why do you let him live? ’ 

As he spoke his eyes were full of a light like that of madness; 
so at least it seemed to the good captain, who stubbornly shook 
his head. 

“ Neow you jest take a friend’s advice. John Dyson. Go back 
to your work like a man, and don’t think of naught but helping 
me to get this ship safe to land. As for that voung miss, remem- 
ber she’s aboard, and jou’ll have to answer to Almiglity God for 
her life. Show you’re a man. I say, and not a roaring he-b’ar.” 

At that moment William Long’s voice sounded from the fore- 
castle: 

“Land ahead!” 

Without another word, the captain took Christian by the 
arm, and drew him gently to the fore part of tlie vessel; he 
made no resistance, but obeyed as if stupefied and dazed. 

Clear and distinct, right ahead, the land was now’ seen— a 
frowning line of crags and mountains, with black and purple 
shadows looming distinct against the background of a pale gray 
sky. So cold and clear was theair that this somber coast seemed 
quite near, though it could not have been less than fifty or sixty 
miles away. 

Land ahead; on the one side of the vessel fields of ice ever 
closing in; and on the other — what? More ice, in seemingly 
impenetrable lines of gigantic bergs rising beyond the drift-ice 
and stretching far as eye could see. 

There was a Babel of voices, as the Dutch and English-speak- 
ing crew clustered together and looked around. The Dutch 
skipper stood smoking his eternal pipe, with a look of stupid 
consternation. 

Soundings were again taken. This time they reached the 
bottom, at a depth of one hundred and fifty fathoms. 

Slowly and cautiously the ship worked along the edge of the 
line of bergs, looking for a lead to the southward. Once or 
twice she entered the ice, but only to retreat in time to avoid 
being cracked like a walnut-shell between bergs in motion. So 
she crept out again into the open water, and liung about like a 
bewildered bird. 

Then it w as suggested that she should put about and work 
back along the open passage by which she had entered the ice— 
a kind of huge trap, from which, as they soon found, there was 
no safe return. For no sooner had she turned, and sailed a few’ 
miles along the open water, than she found that enormous bergs, 
like thing's of life, had drifted down and blocked the passage, 
waiting with yawning jaw’s for het; to enter among them and be 
crushed. 

Like a duck in the funnel of a decoy, ti>e brig fluttered this 
way and that w’ay, but found no practicable outlet. 

More than once she was in mortal peril. 

As she approached one huge berg, a very mountain of shining 
whiteness, solid as marble, a portion of its side shifted and 
broke away — when, with a crash like thunder, the mighty mass 


146 


GOD AND THE MAN. 


toppled over, witbin a hnndrecl yards of the shuddering ship, 
deluging her with flying foam. 

Night found her thus— a chilly, foggy night, in vvbich the 
stiffened sails became hard as boards, showers of icicles fell 
from the frozen ligging at every change of position, and the 
decks became slippery with frost. 

Turning again in the darkness, she ran along the edge of the 
ice; and now, as night advanced, there was a murmur in tiie 
air of rising wind — blowing this time from the northward, and 
coming so cold from the pole that it cut the cheek like a lash of 
steel and drew blood. 

At daybrev^k, it was blowing half a gale. 

“ What dew you think o’ this, William Long?” asked Captain 
Higginbotham of that grizzled maritime authority. 

“ I think as how we're in a traf), captain; and if so be as 
winter's a-setting in early, there’s little chance for that theer 
ice to clear. Unless we can bore a way through the loose ice 
yonder, we’ll hev to go to bed like tlie snakes and wait for sum- 
mer.” 

But to attempt to bore southward just then was out of the 
question, for the northerly gale was still rising. By mid-day it 
blew with such fury that it was found necessary to run right in 
under shelter of the ice, and fix a couple of anchors to a solid 
berg. 

This was done, with no little trouble and peril; and thus an- 
chored to solid masses wdiich seemed drifting to windward, 
they saw smaller bergs and loose floes sweeping past like ships 
before the shrieking wind. On one of these loose fragments 
stood a huge she- bear, shrieking in terror or anger as she floated 

Creeping again on deck from the solitude of the cabin, Pris- 
cilla saw the ship beset, wdiile the ice-fields on every side were 
dyed crimson by the sun, which, pausing on the level horizon 
line, hung like a huge drop of liquid blood. Not far distant, to 
the westward, lay the land they had previousl}' sighted, with 
thunderous surges breaking on its rocks, while higher up its 
lurid mountain heights flashed back the sunset’s bloodshot 
beams. Innumerable terns and kittiwake gulls were hovming 
over the vessel, many quite fearlessly aligliting on its yards, as 
tame as doves, and in the open water close by, flocks of seals 
were disporting. 

There was a roar in the air above of shrieking wind, and a 
sound all around of serge and crashing ice. but down on the 
deck there was comparative shelter from the fury of the gale. 
Priscilla crept to the Yankee skipper’s side, and reaching out 
her hand, softly touched his arm. She said nothing, but looked 
around with a strange awe and wmnder, mixed with maidenly 
fear. 

Tiien she shivered, for the air was icy cold. 

“You’d best keep below, missie,” said the kindly skipper. 
“ This air ain’t fit for tender lungs to breathe. I’ve seen the 
north wind bring blood from a man’s chest afore now.” 

•* Why are we staying here?” 


GOD AND THE MAN. 


147 


‘•ni tell you, missie. We’re beset by the ice, and what’s more, 
there’s. a northerly gale blowing. If them anchors slipped, we 
should drive dowm on the bergs to lee'ard, and tliis ship’s shell 
ain’t tough enough to stand tfiat, I leckon.” 

At this moment Eichard came up, and a sharp gust sweeping 
the deck, Priscilla clung to him. He put his arm around her 
waist to support her, and in her anxiety, she did not attempt to 
free herself from his hold. 

So for a space they stood, while a pair of jealous eyes, gaz- 
ing from the forecastle, watched them with a new and aching 
despair. 

Then Christian thought, “She loves him! He hath poisoned 
her heart against me, and she loves him!”— and he could have 
killed them both. 

“ Do you think there is danger?” asked Richard wistfully, still 
supporting her. 

The skipper did not answer. He was never the man to lie, and 
he did not care to awaken useless fears, especially in the heart 
of his favorite. He thrust his hands deep into the pocketsof his 
sailor’s jacket, and glared with his one eye at the sunset, as if 
in gloomy speculation. 

Then lie turned away, and going forward, saw Christian 
watching, like a wild beast preparing to spring. So the wary 
skipper placed himself in a convenient attitude, ready to inter- 
fere with brute force if the man meant mischief, as he feared. 

Now, something in their common danger brought the hearts 
of the young man and the maid together, as they stood thereon 
the ciiilly deck. 

“You are cold,” said Richard, softly. “Let me fetch you 
something warm to cover you.” 

“Nay, I am not cold,” she answered; then she added, with 
tears in her voice, “ O Richard. I fear for my father! He is so 
old, and he seems.|;o ill. If he should die ” 

She paused, for the tears choked her. 

“ He will not die,” returned Richard, cheerfully. “ We shall 
soon escape from this terrible place, and fjn.I a haven.” 

“Pray God it may be so!— but if evil should come to him, I 
should die, too. No%v my dear mother is dead, he is my only 
friend and protector.” 

“ Say not so. You have one other.” 

“ None that I love so much, none to content me if he were 
gone.” 

He held her more closely, and under the inspiration of the 
moment, vvhispered eagerly: 

“ You have one who lov^es you more than all the world — one 
who would protect you with his life, one who for your sake has 
forsaken father and fatherland, is with you now, and will be 
with you till the end.” 

Trembling now, she tried to release herself, but he held her 
fast. 

“ Do not hold me!” she cried. “ Let me go back to him!” 

“ Am I not forgiven?” 

Forgiven — what? Prithee let me go!” 


148 


GOD AND THE MAN. 


“ Stay a little yet,” said Richard: then in a voice of solemn 
earnestness, he continued, “ Sweetlieart, we may never leave 
these cruel shores alive. This ice may be our tomb’. Nay, 
tremble not; for if it were, I for one should die peacefully, if I 
wei’e certain of your sweet love. Without that, life is nothing; 
with it, death would be divine.” 

Slie looked at him in wonder. His pale face was shining, his 
eyes full of overmastering passion. 

“ This is no time to talk of such things. Rather pray to God, 
who holds us in the hollow of His hand;” and again she tried to 
disengage herself from his circling arm. 

“ I have prayed— I pray— to God, for one thing only— your- 
self. Priscilla!” 

At last she released herself, but, pausing, looked again into 
his face. 

“ I shall never marry. If God in His rnercv spares us, my 
place will still be w’ith my father. Do not speak of it again.” 

The words were decided enough, but the tone w^as so gentle, 
the look so kind, that Richard might well smile to himself as 
the delicate figure flitted away. Flushed and wild with pas- 
sion, he hung over tlie ship’s side, and looked at the wdntery 
scene around him. 

He did not believe that there was imminent danger, but he 
had not lied when, in the fervor of passionate feeling, he had 
sworn that he could face death in Priscilla's company. Still, his 
dream now was of sunshine and a fair haven, with the maiden’s 
love as his excellent reward. 

And all this time the other’s eyes were watching, with a 
feverish desire. Christian did not stir, though the impulse to 
do so was strong upon him; but his face was set in terrible re- 
solve. In his heart of hearts, he too was praying to God. 

“He has robbed me of everything, even her love. His life, 
oh God — give me his life! It is forfeit to me already. God of 
iustice, if there be God indeed, give me his life!” 

******* 

Night fell, and with night came, borne down in the lap of the 
gale, w’hirlwinds of blinding snow, snow so thick that it 
smothered ma.st and rigging, drifted in great heaps upon the 
deck’ and against the bulwarks, and clothed the shivering 
seamen with garments of whiteness. And now the wind came 
in blasts so terrible that again and again the vessel was in 
danger of being torn away from the shelter of the solid ice.” 
which groaned and crashed around her like mountains upheaved 
by earthquake. 

"But as soon as an anchor dragged, the men sprung out, and 
at peril of their lives made it fast again, digging lioles for the 
fluke w’ith their hatcliets. in the firmest portions of the berg. 
As they worked thus the snow drifted over and almost 
smothered them, and two men disappeared into chasms of the 
ice, never to appear a'^ain. 

At last the snow ceased, after having fallen for hours, and 
there came a faint starlight, in which the ship loomed strange 
and phantomic, shrouded in silver, with half-frozen snow hang- 


GOD AND THE HAN. 


14i> 


ing likp bearded icicles to its masts and rigging, and its decks 
spread with a tliick car{)et of whiteness. Above, the cold heaven 
glittered as with innufnerable points of bluish steel; while the 
ice all around assumed fantastic shapes, with vast shadows and 
gleams of silver and azure. 

But though there was not a cloud in the zenith, the blast blew 
from the cold clime with iiever -ceasing force. 

At midnight there came other penis, in which all others were 
forgotten. 

All at once, as if at some concerted signal, the whole frame- 
work of the solid floe began to move and close in upon the ship. 

Sharp reports like those of artillery, but infinitely deeper and 
more terrible, resounded on every side, while here and there, 
with a force like that of an earthquake, the ice was torn into 
mighty fissures, up which the blue water spouted and flowed. 

Between wind and w’ater the tumult was stupefying. 

Then the ice closed in with slow and pitiless strength, till it 
held the ship as in a vise. 

A cry went up from the terrified sailors, for the solid ribs of 
oak began to crack and yield like the* shell of a breaking egg. 

Fortunately the pinch came very slowly, and the ship’s timber 
w’as unusually tough and strong; while, thanks to large portions 
of yielding floating ice which surrounded her on every side and 
acted as a sort of fender, she did not actually come in contact 
with the main body of the floe. 

Preparations were at once made for the worst. Orders were 
given to get the boats out upon the ice, and to land such pro- 
visions as might be necessary in the event of the ship’s destruc 
tion. Barrels of meal and salt junk, kegs of spirits, bags of 
biscuits, were passed from hand to hand and thrown out upon the 
ice. Men shouted, women screamed, but all voices were 
drowned in the elemental tumult. 

Pale as death, Richard Orchardson accosted Captain Higgin- 
botham, who stood directing the movements of his own crew 
moving about like shrieking ghosts in the dim light. 

“ Is the ship doomed ?” he cried. “ Must we take to the ice?” 

“We’re in the Lord’s hands.” replied the skipper. “This 
ain’t no time for talking. If you’re a man, lend a hand!” 

Thus urged, Richard clambered over the ship’s side, and 
joined the busy crowd who were passing things Horn hand to 
band across the loose ice. Despair and terror gave him strength; 
he leaped eagerly to a place, and was soon as busily employed as 
the rough crew. 

Upon them as they w«jre thus busily engaged burst another 
storm of blinding snow, so thick and heavy, that it became 
pitch-dark, and thej could not see each other or even the outline 
of the ship. The men shrieked to each other in terror; some 
threw themselves upon their faces to avoid being swept away, 
others clung wildly to each other. 

With a sharp cry of fear, Richard struggled back toward the 
ship, but as he moved, the solid ice seemed to crumble beneath 
him, and he heard the roar of surging water. 

At this moment he dimly saw standing close to him a white 


150 


GOD AND THE MAN. 


shape, like the shape of a man. In the extremity of his fear, he 
tottered to it and clutched it wildly. 

“ Help!’’ he gasped. 

Scarcely had he uttered the cry, when he felt himself lifted as 
if by superhuman strength and carried away rapidly across the 
ice. His head swam, a new and nameless horror possessed him. 
but he still clung frantically to the shape which carried him 
away. 

Through the blinding drift he was swiftly hurried. As a 
lioness might carry off a child, or as a mighty polar bear might 
carry off a small seal, the shape carried him away. 

He looked wildly round for the ship, but could see nothing 
but blinding whiteness. Then he struggled to release himself, 
but was held in a clutch like that of iron. 

“ Help!” he shrieked again. 

It seemed like some hideous dream. The shape still ran with 
him across the solid ice, in the teeth of the flying drift, the 
biting blast. 

Then, sick with terror, he swooned away. 

When he opened his eyes, he was lying prone. The snow had 
ceased, and the starlight again shone faintly down. He looked 
up, and saw standing before him, wrapped from head to foot in 
snow, a tall human shape. 

Then a white face was pressed down close to his, and while a 
hot breath touched his cheek, a voice hissed these words: 

“ At last!” 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

“AN EYE FOR AN EYE.” 

In a moment he had recognized his mortal enemy. With a 
wild cry he leaped to his feet, and looked^round for the ship. 
But no ship was visible: only on every side gigantic hummocks 
of ice and snow. 

He turned and would have flown; but Christian gripped him 
by the throat. 

“ Stand and listen! I could have slain you in your swoon, 
but that would have been too merciful." Look "in my face! 
quick! do you know me ?” 

“ Yes!” 

“Remember my broken-hearted father! remember my be- 
trayed sister! remember my murdered mother!— remember all 
these, and remember her whose heart you have turned against 
me, before I kill you.” 

“ Help! you will not murder me ?” 

“ Cry, but no one can hear you. The ship lies yonder a mile 
away. I have brought you "hither to make expiation. You 
hear ?” 

“ For the love of God ” 

“ He has given you into my hands.” 

“ No, no! — do not harm me! I will do whatever you wish 
—I will abandon my pursuit of Miss Sefton— yes, I will make 
amends.” 


QOD AND THE MAN. 151 

“Can you bring back the dead to life? Can you heal the 
hearts you and yours have broken ? Devil!” 

As he s))oke he compressed his grip upon the others throat, 
so that he could not speak. 

“ Answer me one thing, before I kill you. Did you not fire 
the ship ? Answer!” 

He released his grip, and the answer came in a wild negative, 
while Richard fell crying upon his knees: 

“No, no!” 

“ Before God ?” 

“ Before God!” * 

Using a fierce oath, Christian struck him in the face with his 
open hand. He fell back shrieking. 

“ Another lie to help sink your soul to the pit of hell!” 

As Christian spoke there came from the distance the faint 
report of a gun; after a moment’s interval, it was followed by 
a second report, and by a third. 

“You hear?” he cried with a terrible laugh. “They miss 
you already, but they cannot save you. Nothing can save you 
now.” 

But the sound of the gun, and the knowledge that help was 
not far away, seemed to give Richard strength and speed. He 
leaped to his feet, and before the other could touch him, fled in 
the direction of the sound. 

It was a race for life, for Christian followed close behind him, 
and almost struck him as he ran. Under ordinary circum- 
stances, he was the fleeter, and terror lent him wings. He in- 
creased the distance between them at every step. 

Over the slippery ice, between the frowning hummocks, twist- 
ing, turning, he fled for life. Once he heard his pursuer stum- 
ble and fall, but he heard him spring up again in a rnomentj and 
follow like a bloodhound. 

Another gun from the ship. He rushed wildly on. 

Suddenly, as he fled, he saw before him a long blue line of 
gleaming water — a fissure like a narrow stream, in the very 
heart of the ice. There vvas no time to turn, so he rushed on 
toward it, and as he came near, he saw, to his despair, that it 
was too broad to leap. 

But Christian was close behind. Richard flew to the very 
edge, and pausing there in horror threw up his hands and turned 
his face toward his enemy. 

As he did so, the loose ice crumbled under his feet, and with 
a shriek he disappeared. 

Christian paused in time, and gazed with wild eyes toward 
the water. Then, in the dim light, he distinctly saw the head 
of Richard re-emerge, while his hands with dying strength clung 
to the slippery ice, and a last wild cry for help rose into the air. 

He answered with a horrible laugh, and leaving his enemy to 
die, passed away in the direction of the ship. 

As he w’ent. another black cloud came up, behind the fields of 
ico, .and another storm of snow came sweeping out of it. But 
still he groped his way in the right direction; and at last, as the 


152 


GOT) AND THK MAN. 


shower thinned, and the dim light came out again, discerned 
the vessel in her old position, a quarter of a mile away. 

Scarcely had his eyes fallen upon her, when a shock like earth- 
quake ran through the whole body of ice on which he was stand- 
ing, and simultaneously he saw the portion of the floe to which 
the ship was fastened detach itself and crumble like a heap of 
sand. 

Nothing was to be seen but blinding ice-smoke. 

When it cleared, Christian saw that the ship had broken 
loose, and was sweeping, amid the flotsam and jetsam of shat- 
tered ice, right out into the open water— drifting broadside, 
without a rag of sail, and careening frightfully to leeward un- 
der die pressure of the wind. 

He rushed on toward the edge of the ice. 

Before he reached it, another cloud came up, with another 
storm of snow. 

He stood blinded, waiting for the fall to cease. When it did 
so. he gazed with wild eyes out on the open water. 

The bergs were flashing and the surge was sounding, but the 
ship had disappeared. 

He was left alone upon the fields of ice! 


CHAPTER XXVII. 

HERE BEGINS CHRISTIAN CHRISTIANSON’S RECORD, WRIT DOWN 
BY HIS OWN HAND. 

Although I am no scholar, and am. moreover, greatly lack- 
ing in those secret spiritual gifts which make certain mde men 
write and speak as if inspired, I have undertaken, at the request 
of my dear friend and master, Mr. John Wesley — a good and 
great man, whom late in life (yet, thank God, not too late) I 
have learned to understand— at his request, I say, I have under- 
taken to set down certain strange things which occurred to me 
during what I may term, in all humility, the period of my con- 
version. 

But first, before I begin to tax my brain for these half- van- 
ished memories, and to set forth how marvelously the Lord hath 
dealt with me, let me avow that I was never one of those who 
care to make public inquisition of their own souls for the 
astonishment and edification of foolish creatures agape for 
spiritual miracles. I was ever, like all men of my race, one 
caring little for the sympathy of strange folk: dumb in trouble, 
loving solitude, dwelling, often sullenly, with rny own thoughts; 
so that when my heart bled, it bled inwardly, and when I was 
broken on the wheel of despair I wore a brave front to the 
world, and when I prayed to (^od I prayed in a secret place. 

For a long time, therefore, I have debated within myself 
whether these things should be written down at all. savoring 
as they may of foolish vanity, and magnifying unduly God's 
dealings with myself, the least of His creatures. For though I 
would speak of events to me miraculous, as evincing His special 
and providential care for my poor personal salvation, is not this 
same miraculous intervention taking place also in the lives of 


OOD AND THE HAN. 


153 


iiijiumerable other raeii ? Is there one poor creature of all the 
human race— nay, one ix>or sparrow of the air— of whom He 
takes not equal heed ? 

Knowing- well mine own insignificance, and feeling dulv the 
mercies which have been vouchsafed to me, I could have been 
well content to keep these things to myself, as sacred between 
my Lord and me. 

But having spoken in these strains to Mr. Wesley, who alone 
of all men knows how God hath dealt with me, he was strongly 
of opinion that I should write all down; holding, firstly, that 
God deals in precisely the same measure with no two human 
souls; secondly, that the true record of any conversion is a kind 
of divine testiinony; and, lastly, that there are certain poitits in 
my ppor experience which may just now, when the world is so 
filled with the sound of vainglorious battle, the fume of un- 
brotherly controversy, be of especial value to foolish men. He 
reminded me, furthermore, of the many spoken and written 
testimonies of wrathful nien made peaceful, and foul men made 
clean, all through some special and heavenly dispensation, and 
he held that these testimonies, thougli so infinitel}’^ less precious 
than those of the martyrs, could not well have been spared. 

Reasoning of this sort, coming from so learned a mouth, 
presently convinced me, the more so as growing older I per- 
chance grow more garrulous, and have long had it in my mind 
to tell something of the marvels I have known. For few men, 
if any, have dwelt where I have dwelt, seen what I have seen, 
in the realm of the lonely snow. 

Thereupon, having decided. to obey his bidding, I received 
from Mr, Wesley a promise that he himself would take this 
record under bis learned (‘are, >vith a view either to its suppres- 
sion or publication, as he should think fit; and that in the latter 
event— namely, of publication— he will with his own hand cor- 
rect those lapses of language, faults of verbiage, and general 
vices of expression, into which an unlettered man, little used to 
composition, is likely to fall. This promise comforts me, as I 
begin my task; for of all men living. I hold my dear master best 
and wisest, not only in those things which affect our heavenly 
salvation, but in those others which pertain to our right living 
and dying, as reasonable creatures here below’. 

[Follow’ing the above preamble, in Christian Christianson’s 
narration, comes the long account of the w’riter’s birth and other 
family matters, the great feud betw’een the Christiansons and 
the Orchardsons, the coming of Priscilla Sefton, the sailing of 
the Miles Standish, the shipwreck in mid-ocean, the rescue by 
the Dutch vessel, the great storm, and the trouble among the 
ice — with all of which events the reader is familiar. On the 
margin of the manuscript are divers notes in Mr. Wesley^'s hand- 
writing, made at a time when that holy man intended to pub- 
lish the whole story, for the. benefit of the faithful. For reasons 
which were doubtless well weighed that intention was never 
carried out, and on Mr. Wesley’s decease the manuscript came 
back into the possession of the Christianson family. 


154 


GOD AND THE MAN. 


Passing over those matters which have already been explained 
and pictured, we come to that part of Christianson's narrative 
which describes him alone, and cast away, with his wild ej'es 
seai'chin^ the desolate sea, and finding no trace of the ice-be- 
leaguered ship.] 

Standing alone on the edge of the great floe, and knowing now 
certainly that the ship was driven away and perchance destroyed, 
I did not at first realize the extremity of my situation; for I was 
still bewildered by the excess of mine own murderous passion, 
and was in a measure bereft of reason; yet I searched the wild 
sea instinctively, looking in vain on every side for a glimpse of a 
sail; then finding none, ! gazed up at the lonely sky, with a 
strange sense of mingled terror and exultation. 

For I thought: 

Come what come may, I care not now, since the purpose of 
my life is fulfilled. If it he God’s will that I must die, and 
never see again my love’s face or the green hills of my native 
land. lam still content; fori have drunk the full sweetness of 
my just revenge.” 

Then arose before me, sweet and terrible, the face of Priscilla 
— faint and far away as that of an angel. Had Host her? Had 
I, by my own dark deed, parted myself from her forever ? Even 
the" cold despair of this fear did not quite chill my fiery ex- 
ultation. 

I looked again seaward. 

Southward, under a low canopy of mist, stretched drifting 
ice; and nearer, the open space* of water was tumbling and 
whitening. I'strained my eyes in all directions. I gazed hither 
and thither, but saw no ship. 

More than once, some fragment of ice or cloud in the far dis- 
tance seemed to assume the shape of the beleaguered vessel, but 
only to disappoint the sight on close scrutiny. Yes, the ship 
was gone! 

Could she have foundered in the white squall? Could she 
have sunk to the bottom, taking with her the gentle creature 
who had been sent — and sent, alas! in vain — to sweeten'uiy life? 
As the thought came to me. I threw ray arms into the air. and 
pray’ed the Lord to spare my darling— to bear her safe back to- 
the sunny land. 

How long I remained gazing I cannot tell; it must, I think, 
have been for hours, during which space I ran restlessly up and 
down the edge of the ice, seeking some new point of vantage 
for sight of the vanished ship. At last I turned away, fearful 
that I was utterly abandoned. 

The fierce squalls of wind and snow still continued, but they 
came now less fitfully and at longer intervals; and in the pauses 
between their coming a bright frosty radiance filled the air, 
making even distant things distinct as if it were day. Still, the 
eye could not penetrate far, or distinguish wMth certainty one 
shape from another; so that I still hoped, when daylight came, 
to discover the ship. 

Before daybreak the wind fell, the skies became cloudless and 


GOD AND THE MAN, m 

cn’stalline. Then suddenly, as if by miracle, the fields of ice 
were flooded with crimson light. 

Shall I ever forget the dawning of that day? Such a dawn, 
methinks, found Cain standing by his overthrown altar, looking 
on his own red hands. 

It seemed, all at once, as if the world brightened like blood; 
the far north shot up crimson beams, the fields of ice turned to 
ruby and vermilion hues, the sea a deep purple, the heavens 
above like the strange amethyst stone. There was no cloud in 
the sky, no ripple on the sea. In the dim south, the glory was 
reflected on flake-white clouds, broken with pink and vermilion 
bars. 

But how shall such a hand as mine describe these things? 
What can I say, save that the terrible peacefulness and loveli- 
ness of that new morning found me standing like a guilty thing 
— as indeed I was — nay, like Cain himself? As the red light 
flooded the sea, and played upon my face and f(»rm, I felt as if I 
too could hear the voice of God, crying, “ Cain, where is thy 
brother?*’ while I replied, not like Cain, but with shamefuller 
defiance. “ Thou hast slain him, O God; and it is just.” 

Flooded with that new brightness, the scene around looked 
strangely fair, the fairer for its utter desolation; for now it was 
possible to define the prospect clearly, and distinguish objects 
in the far distance. 

Then I perceived for the first time that the great floe on which 
I stood was merely a. kind of bank, or outer- work, lying against 
a rocky line of coast some miles away; drifting thither by tem- 
pest, it had grounded, and then clung with frosty talons to the 
shore. Looking northward, I saw where ice ended and water 
began; whereas I had conceived that the ocean was frozen as 
far as the horizon. 

Southward was the great open water where our ship had been 
beset; but the mass of ice beyond was not solid, but floating, 
consisting of bergs of all hues and sizes, drifting slowly to the 
south. So it was possible, after all, that the ship was saved. 

Again and again I searched the sea for a glimpse of her; and 
so clear was the atmosphere that I could have plainly discerned 
even a small sailing boat many leagues away; but there was no 
sign of what I sought, and seeing that no hope lay in that direc- 
tion, I again gazed toward the neighboring line of land. 

The coast was rockv, and craggy with wild cliffs, as it seemed, 
of basalt, rising to dark slopes and sullen low-lying hills; and 
here and there were spots of somber greenness, and nowhere 
was any sign of snow. 

At this sight my heart took courage. What land it was I 
knew not, but perchance it might contain human creatures? 
So I hastened thither across the ice. 

I had to pick my way warily, for there were dangerous fis- 
sures in the floe, and in some places the ice vvas so rotten and 
thin that it crumbled underfoot. Here and there were open 
pools, some many furlongs wide, others like tiny tarns of 
pellucid and emerald greenness; and these I skirted carefully, 
wiih ever-cautious footsteps. At last it seemed that cruel Fate 


156 


GOD AND THE MAX. 


was against dig: for wl)ei) I was uigli lialf way to the coast, I 
found myself facing a great water, or green arm of the ocean, 
which seemed to interpose a hopeless barrier between me and 
the strange haven beyond. 

In this green water, numerous seals were disporting, while 
others sat on the edge of the ice, sunning themselves in the 
morning rays; and so tame were these last, that they suffered 
me to come within a few yards before they leaped into the sea; 
and having dived down, they rose again, and floated quite near, 
watching me with eyes as soft as those of little children oi young 
maids. Right out in the midst of the water, which was nigh a 
mile across, a narwhal was spouting; and hovering over this 
monster of the deep flew, with sharp cries, innumerable sea-gulls 
and terns. 

Wide as the water was, 1 might readily have got across, being 
from youth a skilled swimmer, but the water was bitter cold, 
and had I stripped I should have frozen. So I wandered wearily 
along the bank, until finally I found, to my great joy, that the 
water ended and gave place again to ice; whereon, walking 
cautiously, and often times in peril of my life, I at last reached 
the land. 

This steel-bound coast grew the more strange and sinister to 
sight as I came nearer; for the crags were of black basalt, 
with great caves hung with stalactites and icicles; and the crum- 
bling shingle on every side was of a foul brown, like iron-sand. 
Over my head, as I stood up-gazing and seeking a footpath 
whereby to climb, hovered a great bird like an eagle, wheeling 
in circles, as the raven doth when haunting our own English 
cliffs. 

There was no way for it but to climb; so I chose a place where 
the ascent seemed easiest, and began to scramble upward. Not 
without peril did I reach the top; more than once my foot 
slipped, and I had to cling with hands and knees to the jagged 
rock; but it was not God’s will that I should die that way, and 
at last I came upon the summit, and pausing there, stood pant- 
ing for my breath. 

Then I beheld that the hills which 1 had seen from the dis- 
tance were almost wholly fashioned of black and barren stone, 
and that the green stains I had seen thereon were not sweet 
growing grass, but a kind of foul moss, very thin and spongy to 
the tread. Beyond this moss there seemed no other sign of 
vegetation; not a tree or bush, however bare; no flower, not 
even the weedlings of the rock. All \vas so barren and ominous 
that my heart sunk v.ithin me. and I felt for the- first time the 
grievous shadow of m3" own sin. 

Ay me! as the years roll back, like dark vapors, how vividl}" 
do T behold that dreary place! While all around seemed so 
\vhite and fair, in the light of the chill morning, the land alone 
seemed sinister and forbidding— fit abode, fit grave, for one so 
iitained with sin and sorrow as myself. 

I wandered on until I gained the highest elevation I could 
discover, trusting to spy from thence a fairer prospect inland, 
and perchance the sign of some savage habitation. Standing 


GO!’ AND THE 31 AN, 


157 


thereon, I si in r.i\ h spair, not land at all, but open water, 
stretchine: fr, away > the west. 

Then inde^tf mj * v , sunk in despair, for I knew that God 
had forsaken fn- aO ' st me away, like Crusoe, upon a deso- 
late ocean isle.* 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 

THE ISLAND OF DESOLATION. 

I SHOULD grow wearisome and over-garrulous if I tried to set 
down all the strange distempered thoughts tliat filled my soul 
that first day of my desolation; for despair is a tedious compan- 
ion, and at last I despaired indeed; seeing no hopje, no haven, 
no escape, beyond the lonely sea on one hand, and the lonely 
field of ice, with more sea beyond, upon the other. 

This much, however, let me tell: that, although as yet I re- 
pented in no measure of the evil I iiad wrought by my owm 
hand, it was some comfort to remember that mine enemy had 
not died directly by my violence, though indirectly his death 
had come about through my sinful passion. Standing there 
lonely in the sight of Heaven, I vindicated myself against the 
voice vrhich still cried in my ear, “ Cain, where is thy brother?” 
Although I rejoiced in his death, 7 had not slain him; nay, had 
not God Himself taken the task out of my hands? 

Nevertheless, despite my rejoicing, I was cruelly haunted by 
the remembrance of his "dying face, as it flashed before me on 
the edge of the ice, while his wild hands clutched the crumbling 
brink, and his shriek for help rang out on the air. 

I might have saved him, then, by reaching out a finger; jet I 
had left him to die! 

But my chief thoughts now were not of him, or of any that I 
hated or loved in this world, but of mine miserable body — how 
to preserve it safe in so terrible a place. I had not cared much 
for life before, when life seemed sure; but now that the chance 
of escape was so small, my rude spirit rose in a despairing dream 
of preservation. Perchance r^sctie would come in some un- 
heard-of way; and then, if Priscilla lived, I siiould see her face 
again, and be foi given . 

The day was now far advanced, and the pinch of hunger within 
me warned me that I had not eaten food since the previous day. 
■With this sudden sense of hunger came a new and sickening 
thrill of dread; so that I shivered to the bone, and gnashed my 
teetli, wdth cruel tears. For now I seemed to see the full ex- 
tremity of my doom. 1 had no morsel of food with me,' and the 
isle was barren; so that, unless succor came soon, I must starve 
to death. 

* Here an the margin of the old manuscript is a note In Mr. Wesley’s 
handwriting: “ Doubtless this is a mere figure of speech. No man knew 
better than the writer that God ‘ forsakes ’ no man, since, by the meas- 
ure of His crrace, not of our deserving, we are saved. Often those whom 
He seems to ‘ castawaj%’ are nearest to His hand; but in all manners and 
at all seasons He works darkly, for issues that we cannot comprehend.” 
--J. W, 


158 


GOD AND THE 


In the pockets of tlie rude seaman’s ciothes i wore, I found 
only a clasp-knife (such as sailors use), some twine, a cotton 
handkerchief, a wooden pipe, and a piece of coarse tobacco in a 
tin tobacco box. Fortunately, ere I left the ship, I had put on 
my thick seaman’s jacket and boots, so that I was well clad 
against the cold; but alas! mv danger now threatened not from 
without but from will] in, where the worm of famine already 
began to gnaw. 

But God’s mercv is infinite, and it was not vvritten that I 
should die a dog’s death by the slow torture of starvation. 

As I walked along the summit of the island, searching the 
seas and the ice-fields on every side, I saw miles away (the air 
of that region being marvelously fine and clear) divers black ob- 
jects scattered upon the ice; anS I immediately bethought me of 
our labor the previous night, when the ship was threatened 
and we had been casting out provisions to jjrepare for the event 
of the vessel’s utter destruction. Hope now gave me wings, 
and. descending the crags again, I hastened across the ice. 

The way returning, like tlie way coming, was long and tedi- 
ous, nor was it easy to keep the right direction, winding among 
so many great hummocks and skirting so many pools and lakes; 
but at last I gained the place I sought, the very spot where our 
ship had anchored the previous night, before the force of the 
tempest drove her away. 

Scattered there upon the water’s edge, I beheld a portion of 
the goods the seamen had been landing amid the storm. Part 
of the ice had broken off, carrying with it dcfubtless much of 
the loose store, but there remained several small barrels of flour, 
a sack containing ship’s biscuits, some loaves of rye bread, two 
great Dutch cheeses, and a small keg of rum; and besides these 
creature comforts, a small hatchet, a large roll of blankets, 
some loose planks from the carpenter’s room, and a deal box 
containing flint and steel, some dry tinder, and tin flask of 
lamp oil. 

It is needless to tell how greatly my heart rejoiced at the 
sight of these treasures, which seemed sent for my preservation; 
but I threw up my arms to the still sky, and, with tears oozing 
from my sad eyes, I thanked the Sender. 

It was now afternoon, and I dreaded lest night should come 
on, or the calm weather become broken, before I had borne 
these stores, or a portion of them, to some place of safety on the 
land; so without more ado I shouldered as much as I conid 
carry, namel}’, the sack of ship’s biscuits and one barrel of flour, 
and gripping in my left hand the deal box and the hatchet, T. 
hastened toward the shore. 

Laden as I was, I found it a tedious journey, but my natural 
strength was ever great, and now I was fortified by despair. 
Again and again, however, I had to sit and rest. 

When at last I reached the coast, and threw down my burden 
on the shingle, I was so worn out that I could not even break 
my fast. Presently, however, I recovered strength, and break- 
ing up some ship’s biscuits in my hand, ate eagerly. 

But my work was only juis,'; begun, for I was resolved to se< 


GOD AND THE MAN. 


159 


I lat chance had left me of the ship’? goods; so, without 

0 ■ ag, I toiled back over mine own footprints, to seek an- 
uliier load. 

This time, I carried with me the roll of blankets, which I 
balanced with one liand upon my head, a great cheese, which I 
held firmly under mine arm, and the small keg of rum, which I 
gripped in mine hand by a strap of hemp encircling it. Mv 
progress this time was slower and wearier than before, for my 
strength was less. At last, however, I came to land; and by 
this time, though it was still early in the afternoon, the sun was 
already beginning to disappear. 

This set me thinking where I should pass the night; so I 
searched along the shore until T found in the crags a hollow, 
well screened from the wind, and there I spread some of my 
blankets to make a couch. Scarcely had I done this when dark- 
ness came upon me. 

It was not so dark, however, that I could not carry up to the 
rocks the goods I had saved from the ice, and pile them near 
my sleeping-place; having done which, I supped freely on ship’s 
biscuit and some rum from the keg, and wrapping myself up in 
my blankets fell sound asleep. 

Though the air that came from the ice-floes was keen and 
chill, the night was not cold, for it was not yet winter-tide in 
that region. 

My sleep was heavy, but it was broken by wild dream?. 

Methought, as I lay, that Richard Orchardson, clad all in 
white, as in his shroud, came and bent over me, and that when 

1 opened my eyes he screamed and fled; and 1, rising, sped after 
him over great fields of ice lit up by the moon, he still shrieking 
as he w-ent; but suddenly he turned with shrill laughter and 
faced me, his hands outreaching, and his face like a head of 
Death, with no flesh thereon, but flame in the sockets of the 
eyes. Then he cried in a terrible voice, “ Cain, Cain! where is 
thy brother ?” and before I kuevv it he had me by the throat. In 
vain I struggled — nay I could not struggle, for my hands were 
turned to stone, my feet to lead; and ever his lean fingers 
strangled my throat, so that my hour seemed come. Then, as I 
tried to free myself with a scream, mine eyes opened, and I 
woke: to see the starry heavens glittering above my head, and 
feel all around me the deep breathing of the night. 

As I lay thus w^aking, I heard from the distance a strange 
sound like the bellowung of beasts; it seemed to come from the 
neighboring ice, and was accompanied by another sound, like 
the splashing of waves. So I reached out my hand and gripped 
the hatchet, which lay close by me; but after listening for some 
time, and still gripping the hatchet firmly, I fell to sleep again. 

With the first gleam of daylight I awakened and rose from my 
bed. 

My limbs felt numb and stiff, and I was shivering slightly, but 
after running to and fro for some minutes upon the strand, I 
felt quite warm and strong. 

Then I drew fortli my wooden pipe and filled it with tobacco, 
and having taken out the flint and tinder, managed to procure a 


160 


GOV AND THE MAN. 


light. I had never been a great smoker, and now fc ■ ni .o 
time I felt the true blessing of the Indian weed. Seated on a 
great stone, pipe in mouth, 1 sadly reviewed m3" condition, 
while the red ball of the sun rolled up out of the ocean, and 
daylight spread like the slow flame of a newly- kindled fire. 

Sleep had partly calmed my troubled pulses, and the tobacco 
fumes completed what sleep had begun. 

T saw now with stolid certainty what I had wildly perceived 
before: that I was a lost man, unless I could live on upon that 
place of desolation until some kind of succor came; and I saw, 
moreover, that in all human probability succor would never 
come at all. 

All men cling to life, even those for whom it has most sor- 
rows; and for mine own part I clung to life still. Sol bethought 
me of other men who had been castaway, and who by their own 
unaided strength had preserved themselves sound and safe 
under dire distress, while all the elements were leagued against 
them. What they had done I perchance might do, since by 
God’s mercy I was at least preserved against famine. My 
strength had ever been as the strength of ten; and I determined 
to use it all for my preservation before I yielded to my misera- 
ble fate. 

After breakfasting on ship’s biscuit, I again made my way 
across the ice; and in the course of three more journeys afoot, 
I carried safely to land all tiie rest of the loose stores left by the 
ship— nor did I leave behind even the carpenter’s planks, which 
I guessed might j"et serve me in my need. 

When this work was completed, the sun was in mid -heaven. 

I now remembered how many a man, in similar extremity, 
had saved himself from utter despair, and even from madness, 
by the hard durance of toil; and I determined to think as little 
as might be of the wretchedness of my condition, but to lull my 
troubled soul with w^hatever rough labor I might devise for the 
body’s gain. 

My first care was how to store the shii)’s goods in some safe 
spot where no harm might come to them from either wild beasts 
or foul weather. So I searched the island npand down, seeking 
some spot already fitted by nature to be a place of refuge. 

My first search was along the sea- shore. 

Everywhere on the sea level I found basaltic caves, some vast 
as the great halls of our old manor-houses, and hung with slimy 
weeds and glittering stalactites; and in many of them, as I en- 
tered them, I heard tlie motion of seals and other great beasts 
of the sea. In all of them the atmosphere was foul and clammy, 
and the air bitterly cold. 

So I left the shore, and, climbing the crags again, sought the 
upland slopes. 

At last I found, high upon the island, but well sheltered from 
the ruthless wind, the place I sought— a fissure in the solid hill- 
side, broad enough to hold two or three men standing abreast, 
some ten feet long and seven feet deep. Its bottom and sides 
were of bare rock, and all that it lacked, to form a kind of earth 
cabin ready made, was a roof against the storm. 


OOD AND THE MAN. 


161 


Returninpj toward the eastern shore, I searched along the 
crags for some place of easy descent and ascent, up which I 
might succe?cl in carrying my stores; and after a long search, I 
found a place where the cliffs had been rent bodily asunder by 
some convulsion of nature, leaving between them a jagged nat- 
ural patii, perilous in places, but tit for my purpose. Descend- 
ing here, I walked round to tlie rocks where I had first slept. 

Determined to lose no time, I began at once to transport my 
goods, and succeeded so well that before nightfall I had carried 
everything to the top of the island, where I ranged them in a 
heap within a hundred yards of the spot I had chosen for a 
habitation. Then, taking my roll of blankets, I spread them 
deep down in the fissure of the rock, and there, with the clear 
skies above me, I lay and slept. 

Thus passed my second niglit upon that island of desolation. 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

CHRISTIAN ROOFS HIS HOUSE. 

I WAS awakened by the sound of rushing hail, and by the 
hard hailstones beating upon my face. Arising and climbing 
the side of the rock, I saw that it was daybreak, and blusterous 
weather. The wind was blowing from the nor west, and bring- 
ing up at intervals clouds of hail and sleet. 

As I stood T heard from overhead a shrill clangor as of voices 
high up in the air; and gazing upward I saw a great flight of 
birds winging southward, and calling faintly to each other. 
They flew in a string, like wild geese, with the leader in the 
center, and the rest forming the two sides of a w edge; and al- 
though from time to time, as the wild gusts blew them about, 
they changed places with each other, they preserved the w^edge- 
like shape of their flight until they disappeared 

Scarce had these passed, when t heard another sound like the 
whirr of wings; and gazing upward again, I saw the air clouded 
with great flights of duck, flying southward, too. 

Then I knew, partly from old experience, and partly from 
what I had read in books of travel, that these birds, wiser in 
their generation than foolish men, w’ere hastening to summer 
climes before the approach of wdnter weather. 

As I watched them, my eyes grew dim with tears, and I wept 
that I lacked wings to flv with them from that dreary clime. 
And now my heart sank "indeed, for I was certain that I could 
never leave that place alive. 

The very extremity of my despair decided me to quick action; 
for I saw that if heav^’ snows should come I must certainly be a 
lost man. So I determined, without delay, to make myself 
some rude shelter from the storms; and with that view I ran at 
once to the place where I had left my stores. 

Coming to the place, I saw something which filled my heart 
with fear and consternation. 

Although the stores were still there, they were not as I had 
left them overnight, for the bag of ship’s biscuits had been torn 
open, as if by claws or teeth, and a portion of its contents cat' 


162 


OOD AND THE MAN, 


ried away, as I thought, by some wild beast; and one of the 
barrels of flour had been rudely broken open, and part of its 
contents scattered upon the ground. 

Only a human being, or some formidable animal, could have 
done so much; and since the island was uninhabited. I at once 
set the deed down as that of some midnight prowling beast. 
Therefore I clutched my ax, and looked round on every side, 
half expecting the monster to spring forth; but it made no sign, 
and at last, warily and watchfully, I began the work I had 
come to do. 

Lifting the loose ship’s planks one by one in my tw’O arms, I 
carried them to the side of the fissure of the rock; and then, 
having measured them with finger and thumb, began to divide 
them crossways in twain. It was slow work, as I had no saw, 
but only my knife and hatchet; and these three planks took me 
the better part of that day. 

Now, half of one of the planks thus cut in twain would just 
stretch breadthways across the opening of that natural cavern; 
and by ranging the six half planks parallel to each other, and 
leaving between each a foot of open space, I had a foundation 
for the roof I wished to build. Then I took two coarse blankets 
from beneath, and spread them out upon the planks, separately 
from each other, placing upon them great stones, which w^ere 
plentiful thereabout, to keep them from being blown about by 
the wind. 

All day, as I wrought at this task. J saw more birds passing 
overhead, all flying to the south; and more than once my heart 
failed me, and I cried to myself, “Of what avail to labor, since 
I must perish in the end ?” But the stubborn spirit of my race 
prevailed, and in the very strength of despair I labored on. 

That day I had partially roofed my dwelling in the rock. 
Stones and fragments of rook were thickly piled upon the 
•planks and blankets I had spread beneath; and underneath was 
a dark recess or cave, with only one entrance, just wide enough 
to admit a man at tlie lower end. This entrance I devised to 
protect, later on. with some kind of trap-door or rocky barrier, 
as a safeguard against the attacks of prowling beasts. 

Now, while busy at this work, I made a discovery which was 
destined in a great measure to lead to my body's preservation. 
On the western side of the island, where I searched for stones, 
I found the green ground broken up, and full of rotten vegeta- 
tion, like the moss-turf to be found in some parts of England. 
Then remembering that such turf makes excellent fuel, I with 
my clasp knife cut out squares as large as I could manage, and 
heaped them ready to carry away. For hours I labored, and 
before sunset had gathered a goodly pile; this I arranged stack- 
wise, as I had seen done at home, so that neither snow nor rain 
could reach the dry portions below. 

Not content with these, I cut more squares, and carried them 
in armfuls into the cave; and I found them so dry after t’no 
drought of summer, that they burned almost too quickly. 

Then I made in the center of the cave a small circle of stones, 
and in the center I put the fire, I had no chimney, and for a 


GOD AND THE MAN. 


163 


time I was nigh choked with the fuel-smoke; but I knew that it 
was wholesome, and would drive away the clinging damp. 

Before resting that night I carried into my cave all the rest of 
my stores, and ranged them carefully along the bottom of the 
solid rock; leaving myself just room to stretch my body and 
limbs at full length. 

Taking stock of what God’s mercy had left me, I found that I 
had now remaining, as my security against famine, and for per- 
sonal uses, the things that follow, viz.; 

Two small barrels of flour. 

Five loaves of rye bread. 

Two Dutch cheeses. 

A sack of ship’s biscuits. 

A small keg of rum, containing about two gallons of the raw 
spirit. 

Four blankets (counting not the twain I had spared to roof 
my cave), 

Flint and steel with dry tinder. 

A flask of lamp oil. 

A clasp knife. 

Some coarse twine. 

A pipe of wood, and about a quarter of a pound of negro-head 
tobacco. 

Added to these, I wore upon iny body as garments: a thick 
jacket and trousers of woolen woof, a sailor’s woven guernsey, 
a flannel shirt and drawers, thick yarn stockings, strong knee- 
boots with nails, and a seaman’s sou’wester made of oilskin 
cloth. 

* * * * * * * 

In the middle of that third night I was wakened by a noise 
above my head. 

I started up and listened, afraid. At first all I heard was the 
low moaning of the wind, and the pattering of hail; but sud- 
denly there came another sound, like the heavy tramp of feet. 

The sound ceased; then I distinctly heard something breath- 
ing heavilv, close to the roof of my cave. 

I knew it could be no human thing which troubled my rest in 
such a place, and, unarmed as l was, I did not at first care to 
face any monster or wild beast; but, at last, summoning cour- 
age, I clutched my hatchet, which lay close to my bund, and 
thrust my head out into the night. 

It was pitch dark, and I could see nothing. The thing, what- 
ever it M’as, had disappeared. 


CHAPTER XXX. 

A NEW PERPLEXITY. 

The next dawn was dark and cold, with more storms of hail. 
As I emerged into the dim light, and {gazed up at the zenith, I 
saw five wild swans sailing swiftly overhead. 

I watched them with a heavy heart till they disappeared 
against the southern sky. . 

After breaking my fast with bread and biscuit, and drinking 


16 t 


GOD AND THE MAN. 


ata tin}' fouiitaio which I had discovered trickling from the 
solid rock, I wandered down to the eastern side of the island, 
carrying the hatchet in my hand, and for many hours I labored 
cutting more moss-fuel and setting it in dry stacks. When I 
could work no more, I wandered down toward the sea. 

The western side was quite free of drift-ice, and looked on 
clear and open sea. For several miles out from the shore it 
was thickly sown with reefs, many of them visible even at high 
tide, and frequented by large numbers of cormorants, of a kind 
larger than any I had seen on our own shores. But what pleased 
ray sight more, and indeed brought the tears to my foolish eyes, 
was the sight of a little familiar bird, which I saw in one of the 
creeks as I approached. 

It was so tame that it only flew away a few yards, whistling 
prettily, and then alighted again and stopped to look at me quite 
fearlessly as it ran along the sand. It was a small red-legged 
sandpiper, like those that are so plentiful on the shores below 
the Fen Farm; and looking upon it. and listening to its thin 
sweet call, I was straightway transported in fancy across the 
sea, to the strands where I was bornl 

All alone it seemed, with no others of its kind, and doubtless, 
when winter weather came, it would fly away southward like 
the rest— perchance to the sandy creeks I had so often haunted 
as a boy! 

As I stood watching it, my spirit turned back sadly to those 
happy days! I saw again the familiar sand-hills, the low-lying 
shores, and beyond all the green slopes, the woods, and the red- 
tiled roof of the Fen Farm; and I thought of my dead mother 
in her grave, and of my lost sister, and of all the vanished days: 
so that my force was broken, and sitting down upon a rock, I 
hid my face in my hands and wept most bitter tears. 

Presently I arose, and wandering along the shores saw many 
.seals, both swimming in the sea and basking on the edges of 
the rocks. Then I bethought me of what certain shipwrecked 
mariners had written concerning the flesh of this animal and 
its precious oils, and I determined, though I had no gun, to 
slay a seal if possible. 

But though the beasts were tame, they were wary, and after 
many attempts to creep upon them unseen and unheard, I de- 
sisted hopelessly; when, just as I had given up, I saw one of the 
beasts lying higli and dry on the shore above me. 

The moment it beheld me it tried to make for the water, but 
I intercepted it; seeing which, it flapped wildly with its fins 
and barked like a dog, and when I approached nearer it gathered 
up stones in its fins and smote them fiercely in my direction. 
Then I went up to it, uplifting the hatchet, and it showed its 
teeth savagely, but tried to escape me. Now these poor beasts, 
though so swift in the water, are made by nature quite helpless 
on land, having no legs to run. but only great heavy bodies (sur- 
charged with oil) and fins and tails; so that this one was at my 
mercy. When I lifted up the ax to strike it, it growled, and 
would have bit me; but I slipped behind it, and struck it with 


QOD AND THE iMAN. 1C5 

all my force upon the head, so that the hatchet was buried in its 
skull. 

And now my heart misgave me, and it seemed that I was 
cruelly murdering some innocent human thing; for the poor 
beast was not yet slain, but cried piteously; and when I struck 
it again, it turned its great soft eyes up to mine, weeping like a 
human creature — yea, weeping, for 1 could see the great salt 
drops of rheum. Yet, willing to put it out of pain, I struck it 
once more with all my strength, and the third time I struck it 
upon the snout (where only, as I afterward learned, these ani- 
mals are truly vulnerable), and it rolled over on its belly, dead. 

Now, many a one would smile to hear that, wlien I had suc- 
ceeded in killing the seal, I stood over it like a guilty thing, and 
hated myself for having taken its life; and, indeed, I know that 
these poor beasts are made only for man’s convenience, and look 
neither before nor after, but pass like other soulless things. 
And yet, methinks, he does great wrong, and mostly to his own 
disposition, who uses them urgently; for they love their lives, 
and enjoy greatly the sweet air and sunshine, even as men and 
women do; nay, have they not, like men and women, great love 
for one another and for their young ? Have I not seen one of 
these same sea-beasts, a female, thrust up its own body to take 
the blow aimed at its suckling offspring, and die cheerfully— 
kindlier in this instance than many mortal mothers, who cast 
their babes away to die ? 

These things I write now, being old; when I was young, I 
cared little for the creatures below me. Yet many of these 
might read sinful men a lesson, if they would onlv heed. Man, 
in his pride and vainglory, vaunts himself the fairest and best 
of things that live,* yet he, too, is only a creature, though he 
has a seeing soul. Woe to him, if God should so use him as He 
often uses the other children of God I 

My sense of guilt did not last long. Presently I tried to lift 
the seal upon my back, but finding it heavy, and slippery as 
ice, I determined to cut it up upon the spot. This I did with my 
clasp-knife; skinning the beast rapidly, then dividing its flesh 
into several portions, and casting away only the head and en- 
trails. 

While I was thus engaged, there hovered over me, loudly 
screaming, large numbers of gulls, many of which were so bold 
that they swooped down from time to time and snatched loose 
pieces of flesh and blubber from my very feet. 

By the time that my task was done, I was bespattered from 
head to foot with blood and oil; so that had human eyes beheld 
me, I must have been a sorry sight to see. Then I sheathed my 
knife, and wrapping the clioicest portions of the carcass in the 
seal’s own skin, proceeded to bear them to my cave. 

* “ And so he is, by high prerogative of grace; but a man without this 
is infinitely lesser than the beasts that die, for these fulfill their uses, 
while he fulfills no use at all. That grace comes to all men who are 
willing to make choice of it, I have ever held, in the face of much un- 
christian opposition. To argue the contrary is to argue that God is un- 
Just— a manifest contradiction, bordering on blasphemy.”— J. W. 


166 


GOD AND THE MAN. 


Reaching: the place after no little toil, T came to the cave 
mouth, and threw down my burden and the hatchet. I then dis- 
covered that by some mischance I had dropped my knife, so, 
without a moment’s delay, not stopping to lift even the hatchet, 
I ran back to the seashore. 

After a brief search 1 found the knife, lying near the spot 
where I had slain the seal, and gripping it joyfully (for to one 
in my forlorn condition it was of priceless value) I returned as I 
had come. 

And now a thing happened which filled my soul with name- 
less amazement, a thing quite unforeseen and inconceivable, and 
so strange that to my foolish mind it looked like devilish magic. 

For coming to the mouth of my house, or cave, I saw the 
seal’s skin and flesh lying where I had thrown them, but the 
hatchet, w’hich I could have sworn I left beside them, had dis- 
appeared! — and though I searched all round the spot, I found 
no trace of the thing I sought. 

Then, in my perplexity, thinking perchance that I had been 
mistaken, and I must have carried the weapon into the interior 
of the cave, I made search there, with the same result as before. 
Emerging again into the light, I stood like a man dazed and 
drunk, uncertain what to think or do. 

Presently, growing more and more confused by a thing so un- 
accountable, and wondering if I had deceived myself after all, 
and had never brought the hatchet to the place where I sought 
it, I returned to the sea shore, searching everywhere as I 
walked. 

But T came back as I went, amazed and terrified. 

Then I searched along the rocky ground, looking for any sign 
of footprints; for I questioned myself, was it possible that some 
beast coming to the place in my absence, had borne the thing 
away in its mouth? Yet this seemed inconceivable; and for 
the rest, the ground was so hard and stony that even mine own 
feet left no print perceptible to the eye. 

By this time I was truly terrified, and ran up and down like a 
madman, searching still. 

Then there came into my mind a new but foolish thought, at 
which I brightened. Was it possible that some boat had landed 
on the island, and that the hatchet had been found and taken 
away by some human hand ? 

To make sure if this were possible, I walked round the island, 
examining the seas on every side, and every creek and cranny 
of the shores around. I might as well have rested still. There’ 
was no sign of boat or men. 

I was now in utter despair, and sat down at the door of my 
dwelling, wondering what strange chance would hapi)en next. 

CHAPTER XXXI. 

THE FACE ON THE CLIFF. 

By this time it was afternoon, and very windy and dark. 

To distract my thoughts, I entered my house and lit my fire; 
then I brought out the train oil I had saved from the ship, and 


1(57 


GOD AND THE MAN. 

devised how I should make myself a lamp, both for light in the 
darkness of the cave, and for warmth also if snow and frost 
should come. So I took the twine that I had carried in my 
pouch, and pouring some of the oil into my tobacco pouch, 
soaked the twine therein; and afterward, plaiting two pieces of 
twine together for stiffness, and mixing with the oil a portion 
of the soft oily fat of the seal, I made a kind of coarse taper, 
like the rude rushlights our fishermen fashion in the fens out 
of dry reeds and tallow. This I carried within, and striking a 
flame with flint and tinder, tried to make the taper burn; 
which it did not readily, for I had soaked the twine too thick 
in oil; but essaying again I made another of the like, which 
gave a feeble light and burned even too rapidly. 

When I had made a number of these rude lights, I fixed 
one against the side of the rock, plastering it in its place 
with seal blubber; and truly I have seen a worse rushlight in 
country cabins among the fens, where also such things are 
home-made. 

Having done this, and feeling very hungry, I took a portion 
of the seal’s flesh and heated it over the flame, drawing 
thence just enough warmth to take eff the edge of rawness. 
This flesh I ate, and found it savory enough; and with that 
and some crumbled biscuit, and a palm full of rum to wash 
them down and quench the taste of oiliness upon the lips, I 
made a good meal. 

Yet all this while I never ceased to perplex my brain as to 
what had become of the missing hatchet; whether it had been 
taken from me by wild beasts, or by some devilish agency, or 
whether, my wits somehow failing me (how I knew not), I had 
through sheer folly mislaid, or lost, or cast it away. Think 
over it as I might, the thing was wholly unaccountable. All 
my ignorance could do was to devise a long and still more care- 
ful search for the morrow, when perchance better memory 
might come to me, or the thing be recovered by some new 
chance. 

Darkness came early upon me; for now each day was grow- 
ing shorter and each night darker. 

It was many hours before I could sleep, for I was sorely 
troubled. 

I was awakened by a horrible vision — to comprehend which 
rightly, he who reads must picture to himself clearly the abode 
in which I lay. 

The rocky cavity wdiich I had roofed over for my house and 
which was of the length, breadth and depth I have already 
written down, was shaped like a huge kist or cofl^in, large 
enough to hold several men side by side, and with some little 
space to spare at the feet. Above the narrow end was the en- 
trance, which I now covered at night with a flat piece of loose 
rock, nearly large enough to fill the opening well, when I 
gripped it from below and pulled it over. 

Now, on this night of which I speak, I had fixed against the 
wall another of my newly-fashioned lights; and while the dim 
flame was flickering on the walls of my house (I had almost 


16S 


GOD AND THE MAN. 


written my Bepulcber, for such it seemed) and my fire dimly 
burning, I fell asleep. 

I wakened suddenly, in strange terror, as men sometimes 
awake from nightmare, with the cold sweat standing on my 
forehead, and mine eyes staring wide; and then I saw, by the 
light of the taper which was just flickering out, and by the red 
ray of the fire, a face gazing wildly into mine. 

It appeared in the aperture at the lower end of the cave, look- 
ing down, and even in that dim light I recognized it. 

The face of Richard Orchardson, horrible, and white as 
death. 

For a space 1 could not speak. The blood froze in my veins, 
my heart stood still, and then I think I must have partly 
swooned, and closed mine eyes. 

When I opened them again, the face was gone. 

I sprung up with a cry. At that moment the light went out, 
and I was left in darkness. 

With no small difficulty, and many unsuccessful attempts, for 
I was shaking like a reed, I succeeded in procuring flame and 
igniting another rushlight; and all this 1 ime I was shivering and 
shrinking, dreading^ to feel some ghostly touch upon my shoul- 
der. Again and again I shrank in dread, fancying I saw the 
face again, 

I went to the aperture, and found it closed, with the rock 
there as I left it overnight; and I said to myself, “It was his 
spirit! He has come to haunt me, and he will haunt me till I 
die!” 

Ah! the horror of those dark hours! The vision had been so 
real, so vivid, that I could not set it down as only a dream; nav, 
I was certain that the man’s ghost was walking the watches of 
the night. 


In my terror I prayed, kneeling on my bed with clasped 
hands. 

With the first peep of day I left the cave. 

It was a strange, blood-red dawn. Great clouds were piled up 
northward and westward, and through a hollow in their center, 
round like the mouth of a cannon, poured fumes and blood-red 
flame. 


The seas all round the island were dark, save for one smooth 
crimson track, like a red road through hell’s blackness, leadino* 
lip to that great hollow. There was a chill wind, with a strange 
moaning high in the air. 

1 stood gazing at the dawn. 

Presently, as the light increased, I climbed to the highest 
ascent of the island, and thence, as was my wo:it many tirpes a 
day, searched the ocean on every side for a sail. 

No sail, no sign, no hope was there! 

The vision of the night had left me sick with terror, and I 
cried to myself: 

‘ It is better that I should die. Of what avail to linger on 
when there is no hope this side of death; when to live on is 
weariness and despair by day, and horror by night; when, if 1 


QOD AND THE 3IAN. 


169 


live, 1 shall go mad and haunted, and end like a wild beast of 
the field, with no glimraer of light, or hope, or sweet memory, 
in the brain? Yes, better to die!” 

So I thought 1 might die swiftly and easily if I cliose one of 
the high crags and leaped therefrom to the rocks beneath. 

Full of this thought, I ran thither, not wishing to think, or 
pause, or even pray, till it was done. 

But as I descended the hillside, and hastened toward the high 
crags, which were rather more than a mile away, I saw some- 
thing which made me pause in wonder and in fear. 

On the edge of the tallest crag a form was visible, with its 
back to me, looking downward! 

At first I thought it was a great stone, but as I gazed it moved, 
and I saw that it lived. What could it be ? A beast of the sea, 
come thither to sun itself, or some huge bird, or some unknown 
monster of the land ? 

I ran nearer and looked again. Then again my heart gave a 
leap, and I staggered like one sunstruck— for I saw plainly that 
the shape was human. 

Strange and savage it seemed, with ragged raiment, wild, 
disheveled locks, and bare head. 

Scarce knowing now what I did, I ran on and came close 
upon the shape, and at last I clearly discerned it to be the shape 
of a man. 

Suddenly he heard me, looked round, and saw me; then, as I 
kept rushing toward him, he leaped to his feet with a startled 
seream. 

Then I recognized him, indeed! 

It was Richard Orchardson, living, and brandishing my lost 
hatchet in his hand, as if to keep me at bay. 


CHAPTER XXXII. 

THE TWO MEN. 

I SHRANK back in horror, thinking at first that I looked upon 
a ghost; while he, with a faint cry, brandished the hatchet, and 
struck feebly at the air. 

Methinks I see him now as I saw him then— his face ghastly 
and foul, his cheeks sunken, his hair and beard wild and un- 
clean, his raiment torn, and his whole form stained with rain 
and the moisture of weedy caves. Spectral he seemed, and 
hideous, like one risen from the dead. 

But I saw quickly that he was no dead man. but Richard Or- 
chardson himself, saved by some miracle from a watery death; 
and straightway I understood clearly that the face I had seen 
in the loneliness of night was no vision, but the face of the very 

^^t the mere sight of what I had hated so much, all my old 
hate returned, and therewith a wicked loathing, such as we feel 
for unclean things. These thoughts must have flashed up like 
fire into my face, for I saw him shrink and tremble, looking 
round which way to fly. ^ -i 

I sprung toward him, and he brandished the hatchet to strike 


no 


GOD AND THE MAN, 

me back; but I closed with him, and found him feeble as a reed 

in my fierce grasp. ^ i i 

I wrenched the hatchet from his feeble grip: he shrieked and 
fell prone upon the ground. Then I stood over him, with the 
hatchet raised, and with hands uplifted to shield him from the 
blow, he shrieked again. 

“ Mercy!” he cried. “ Do not kill me!” ' 

There was murder in my heart, and I was mad to see liim liv- 
ing, but something stayed my hand. My God, I thank Thee! It 
was Thy touch that made me afraid! 

“ Speak!” I said. “ Ho^v came you here ?” 

He murmured some broken words in answer, and pointed 
wildly out to sea. Then he cried again for me to spare his life. 

Twice was the weapon raised to strike, and twice did my arm 
pause and my hand fall. I dared not slay him. 

“Do not kill me!” he moaned again. “I am perishing for 
lack of food and shelter. The hand of death is on me already, 
as you may see!” 

What he said was piteous truth. He had no strength left, 
being spent with cold and famine. 

Seeing me hesitate, he clung around me, dumbly beseeching 
pity; but I shuddered at his touch, and spurned him from me 
with a cruel, mocking laugh. For I saw that there was no need 
of violence, and that, without putting the sin upon my soul, my 
vengeance was still sure. 

“ Take off your hands!” I cried. “ Take them off, or ” 

And as with an oath I raised the hatchet, he obeyed. 

Then, without another word, another look, I turned from him, 
and left him lying helpless on the ground. 

******* 

My wit is too rude, my skill too small, to record rightly the 
emotions that filled my soul that day; for my soul was a wild 
chaos of wonder and hate, pain and loathing, surprise and fear 
— all strangely blended in a confusion of troubled thought. 

And yet, amid all this mental tumult, this stormy darkness 
of the disposition, there came, as a thin ray of light creeping 
among stormy clouds, a certain curious comfort— that I was not 
alone in my desolation. 

As I went to the high places of the island, and looked around 
me, thinking as usual to see some glimpse of a sail, the place 
seemed somewhat less solitary — I knew not why. 

* 1 glanced back for assurance that I had not been dreaming, 

and there the man was where I had left him; but he had risen 
to his feet, and w^as gazing up my way. Tlien my hate took 
me, and I cursed him; but he w^as far away, and could not hear, 
I turned a corner of the rocks, and shut him from my sight. 

Then I paused, trying to think it all over; but dreams came 
instead of thoughts. I dreamed of all the old feud — of my fa- 
ther’s death-bed, of my dead mother, of all the sorrow and all the 
shame; I remembered my oath to kill the enemy of our house; 
and how I had followed him from land to sea, as a wolf follows 
a goat seeking for his life. 

Thus dreaming, I sprung again to my feet. 


GOD AND THE MAN. 


171 


“ ^ was a fool!” I cried to myself. I prayed God iogive him 
into my hands, and God hath answered my prayer. I will go 
back, and end it all!” 

But I went not back. The wild, murderous mood passed 
away again as quickly as it came, and like a man troubled and 
eonfused, having seen some supernatural and inconceivable 
thing, I wandered to my cave in the rocks. 

******* 

Sitting at the mouth of my cave, with the cold heavens above 
my head, and nothing but the sad rocks and tlie distant sea be- 
fore mine eyes, I pondered again over what had taken place, 
and the more I pondered the more strange and inconceivable it 
all grew. All that seemed certain was that Richard Orchardsou 
had survived, and that, thus far, my deep scheme of vengeance 
had been in vain. There did we both lie outcast, in a lonely 
land, with small chance of ever seeing green England again; 
while, far away from both, Priscilla was perchance sailing upon 
a sunny sea, or stepping on some flowery strand. 

For 1 could not think but the ship was saved, knowing now 
that there was no solid ice, but only floating bergs, in the path 
she had taken. By which I am reminded to tell a thing I have 
not yet told, viz., that on that very morning, looking south- 
ward, I saw that all the great bergs had disappeared below the 
horizon, and that the sea southward was quite open and free. 

So what had I done? In the mad fury of my hate I had 
parted from that sweet face which was my heaven on earth (and 
which noiv. God help me! is my heaven up yonder), and had 
cast myself away incontinent, for revenge’s sake, and had 
gained nothing but trouble, deep shame, and unutterable de- 
spair. I had left mine enemy to die, and lo! he had risen, as it 
were, out of the very grave. We had been face to face, and I 
had not slain him; so I was no nearer my revenge than I had 
been of old. 

It was not that I hated him less that I fell sick of my own re- 
venge, and loathed the earth I looked on, and the heaven over- 
head. 

All had been poisoned to me, all made unprofitable, by the ex- 
istence of this man; and yet, though his existence was a poison 
to me still, I felt that I dared not lay violent hands upon him 
again. 

Then I remembered, with sudden exultation, how, in that 
lonely island, there was no morsel of human food save that which 
I had stored for mine own preservation; and this being so, and 
no help nigh, the man was c<?rtainly doomed to a wretched death. 
If hunger did not slay him from within, cold must slay him 
from without, for he had no place to shelter his evil head when 
tempest an<l coldness came. 

“ God is just, after all,” I thought; “ and though He has spared 
this man, it is for slower torture and more dreadful death;” and 
I laughed to myself, seeing how, after all, my righteous venge- 
ance must come about. 

As I sat musing, I saw more swans and geese passing over- 
head, and several large birds, winged like the albatross, but jet 


m 


GOD AND THE MAN. 


black, flying low over the island. This reminded me again of 
the dark days coming; but I no longer cared or feared. So long 
as my vengeance was completed, I heeded not myself. God 
might then deal with me as He pleased. 

This made me hasten to prepare more fuel from the rocks, 
which I carried in armfuls into my cave, and stacked against 
the walls. 

That afternoon there was a thin fall of snow, covering all the 
island with a thin, carpet-like fleecy lawn. At nightfall the 
flakes grew large as fragments of wool, and fell unceasingly; and 
when 1 entered my cave, and drew the rock down over me, they 
were still falling. 

I slept little that night, for my soul was too greatly troubled. 

Again and again I rose, looked out, and saw snow still falling, 
so that the whiteness was piled thick upon my rude roof; fall- 
ing in among the crannies of the stones, the flakes froze there, 
and became as a firm mortar to hold the stones together. 

It was bitter cold without; yet the narrow space within, be- 
ing closely sealed against the weather, was warmed with the 
smoke from the fire, and with my breath, and with the heat of 
my body. Yet I was glad to have the thick blankets to wrap 
around me, and twice to drink a little spirit from the keg — 
which sent through my frame a warmth like liquid fire. 

Then I thought: “ He is well-nigh spent already, and if he 
lives through this night I shall be amazed. Well, our places 
are changed; he is the weak, I the strong; he homeless and hun- 
gry, I sheltered and well nourished. God is just.” 

Yet even with this thought to cheer me I could not sleep; for 
I could not cease from wondering what might become of him, 
where he was taking shelter, whether he was perishing from 
cold. So I shifted uneasily upon my bed, and ofttimes looked 
out again through the falling snow, thinking I might espy him. 

But I saw only blankness, and the dark snow shining with a 
strange silent motion like a shroud shaken before the eyes. 

Now, so strangely and foolishly are we men fashioned, that 
we comprehend little or nothing by our imagination, but every- 
thing by the habit of the sense. Speak to a man of twenty 
thousand folk just burled by earthquake, or of hundreds ship- 
wrecked cruelly at sea, and he is little moved; but show that 
same man one single creature crushed beneath a fallen wall, or 
drowning in a swift river, and he will weep for pity. Now, by 
the same token, I who had devised mine enemy all manner of 
suffering and cruel tortures, was secretly troubled to think of 
him that night shivering, perchance dying, in the wintery snow. 
Not that I would have stretched out a hand to save him,, even 
in direst extremity, not that I forgot my hate, and turned my 
heart to pity; not that I doubted the justice of his punishment, 
the righteousness of his doom; nay, it was not that, but this: 
that we two men were all alone on the island, and that one of 
us was doomed to die. 

In the world, w’here human beings throng, vve hear with com- 
posure of death and sorrow; and if one comes to us saying, 
“ Such and such a man, who shamefully wronged you, is suffer- 


GOD AND THE MAN, 


173 


mg, or Rick, or dead,” we are well content, realizing little of the 
event in detail, but feeling a certain sense of God’s universal 
justice. 

Had there been on that island one hundred men cast away — 
nay, had there been twenty, or even ten — besides the man my 
enemy, I should not have vexed my heart for him, or cast one 
thought toward him, or pictured to myself his dying face. But 
God had so answered my prayer for vengeance that He had 
given the man to me utterly; made that lonely isle our world, 
with on>y our two souls upon it, until the end should come. 

“ Give me this man!” I had prayed. He was given me. “Put 
his life into my hand, let my mercy be the measure of his woe!” 
This, too, God had done. Could my vengeance be completer? 
Could 1 doubt my God again ? 

I did doubt Him. 

Why had not the man died ? Why had he risen up like a 
ghost from the grave? Why was T haunted by the thought of 
him, listening for his footsteps, dreading to hear his voice? It 
was surely just for God to punish him, but could He not have 
done His torture cunningly, without vexing me with the sight ? 

But the world had receded from us like a sea, leaving us 
alone as upon a solitary shore, with no life near us, and nothing 
watching us but the open Eye of God. 

What was to happen ? I knew not; but all that night I saw 
the Eye above me, waiting the event. 


CHAPTER XXXIII. 

IN THE SHADOW OF THE CAVE. 

The next dawn was dim and dark; the heavens were blotted 
with gray clouds, and the snow still fell. When T thrust back 
the rock, the drift fell in and almost smothered me; but I clam- 
bered out, and saw that the island was smothered in the snowy 
whiteness. 

Then I thought I would go down to the shore and slay another 
seal; but in this I was deceiving myself, for my true bent was to 
discover what fate had overtaken Richard Orchardson during 
the night. So I took my hatchet, and w^alked through the 
snow toward the place where I had last beheld him — over 
against the western shore. 

I looked everywhere, but saw no sign of him, nor any trace of 
footprints. Then I passed down to the sea-shore, and making 
believe to be on some other errand (lest his eye should discover 
me, and I be caught seeking what I most despised), I looked 
high and low. 

Presently I heard a cry, and saw, tottering out of a great 
weed- hung cave, the very man I sought. Beholding him, I 
turned away, as if he were the last thing I dreamed to find, or 
cared to seek; and I would have hastened thence. 

But he came staggering after me, reaching out his thin hands; 
and I saw that he was shivering and half frozen, and tha,t his 
eyes were wild. 

“Christian!” he cried; “Christian Christianson!’ 


174 GOD AND THE MAN 

I started to hear my name, and my heart leaped that he of 
all men should dare to speak it. While I stood aghast, he 
came up, and tottering, clutched me to keep himself from 

“ Let me go!” I said, trying to shake him off. “ Let me go, 

or ” , . , 

And I raised the hatchet, as I had done the previous day. 

But his hold only became the tighter. 

“ Yea kill me!” he gasped, thrusting up his thin face to mine, 
so that i could feel his hot breath. “lam dying, but it is so 
slow! I do not wish to live; I shall never quit this place alive. 
For God’s sake, kill me!” 

“ Loose your hold,” I said, “ and promise never to cross my 
path again!” , . , , 

But he still held me, and though his touch sickened me, my 
strength was paralyzed, and I could not do him harm. 

His teeth chattered in his head , and his face was full of a des- 
perate and frenzied desire. 

“ Finish your work!” he cried. “ You brought me here; yes, 
you! Kill me. I say, and finish your work!” 

“ You lie! I did not bring you here.” 

“You did— God curse you for it! You were ever a thorn in 
my side, a shadow in my path, and now you have brought me 
here to die!” 

As he spoke, he moaned despairingly, and fell upon his knees 
as if half swooning. Then did 1 bend over him, and cry, gazing 
fiercely into his eyes: 

“ Remember Kate Christianson! Remember my mother, who 
died broken-hearted! Remember my father whom your father 
betrayed!” 

Even as I spake, he fainted at my feet. 

I left him lying where he fell, and took the path which led 
up the crags. I did not wish to look back, but when I gained 
the height, something held and drevv me, and I gazed down. 

He lay there still, even as one dead. 

Straightway I would have departed, but I could not for my 
life. I stood watching and waiting, sick at the sight I saw, 
sick at myself, sick of earth and heaven. 

At last I saw him stir. 

Presently he rose to his knees, and then I think he must have 
been praying; for his hands were clasped, and his face was 
raised to the cold sky. 

I looked no more, but passed across the island to the western 
shore, and there fortune befriended me, for among the rocks I 
fell upou another seal, which I slew with one blow upon the 
snout. It was smaller thau the one I had slain before, and I 
could lift it easily upon my shoulders. This I did, and carrying 
it up the heights threw it down beside my cave. 

Then, eager to forget myself in any kind of toil, I set to work, 
skinning the beast and cutting up its flesh as before. While I 
sat thus employed, the snow fell lightly, covering me like a gar- 
ment, but I paid no heed. 

Presently I saw a shape coming toward me. He came up 


GOD AND THE MAN. 175 

close, and stood gazing. 1 kept my eyes fixed down upon my 
knife. 

At last I looked up. 

“ Did I not bid you never cross'my path ?” I said, between my 
set teeth. 

“ I am starving,” he replied. 

At this I laughed to myself, with my heart full of hate and 
exultation; but even yet I did not look him in the face. 

“I am starving,” he repeated. “ Since you would not kill me, 
give me food.” 

I laughed again. There was a brief silence; he kept his place, 
and I knew that his eyes were fixed upon my face. 

Presently he spoke again. 

“ Why should you hate me so much ? I would have used you 
well, but you liad ever a stubborn heart. We shall never quit 
this place alive. Give me food, and God will requite you.” 

His voice was so faint and weak that I hardly knew it; none 
the less I pitied him not, no more than I might have pitied a 
starving hound. Nay, to the hound I would have cast some 
shred of help, some fragment of my store; but my heart was 
shut to him. " 

“It was your turn once,” I said, quietly; “it is my turn 

}10W.” 

As I spoke he moved past me, to the entrance of my cave. 

“ Since you will not give me food, I will take it!” he mur- 
mured, half to himself, half to me. 

Then I rose, still bloody with the work I had been doing, and 
gripping my knife: 

“Keep back!” I said, fixing my eyes for the first time upon 
his white face. “ There is nothing here for you.” 

“It is mine as much as yours,” he answered feebly. “ I tell 
you I am starving!” 

“ Starve!” 

“ Give me but one morsel of bread.” 

“ Not one.” 

“lam frozen— let me shelter from the snow.” 

“Not/ie7’e.” 

Uttering a despairing cry, he filing himself upon me, and 
struck at me with his feeble hands; but with one hand I held 
him, feeling him like a straw in my strong grasp, and shook 
him as an eagle shakes a lamb. 

Then I said: 

“ Let there be an end to this between us. You get no help 
from me. What I have is mine, and rather than share one frag- 
ment with such as you I would cast all into the sea. You hear ? 
And do you wonder, man, why I have not killed you This is why 
— you are not worth killing — I leave you to a dog’s death, such 
as you deserve.” 

So saying, I threw him off, and he sank moaning on a frag- 
ment of rock; then he hid his face in his hands, and I saw the 
tears streaming through his cold fingers. This made me hate 
him none the less but despise him the more. But suddenly, as 
he lingered thus, he stretched out his arms to the empty air, and 


OOD AND THE MAN. 


17() 

cried, ns if crying to one who stood in the flesh before him, this 
one word twice repeated: 

“Priscilla! Priscilla!” 

I started and looked round, half dreaming indeed to see her 
standing between us; but I was a fool for my pains, and saw 
nothing. Then I strode over to him, and struck him on the 
shoulder with my clinched hand. 

“Why do you call on her? How dare you name her? Do 
you think she can help you ? Do you think she would help you 
if she could ?” 

His answer came fearlessly, though his voice was so weak, 

“I think she is an angel, and you are a devil.” 

“ How dare you think of her at all? Think rather of your 
grave. Listen, Richard Urchardson. You will die here but I 
shall live— I shall be saved. I shall bide safe till succor comes, 
for I have a place to shelter me and food to eat. Then I shall 
go back into the world and find Priscilla, and tell her how I had 
my revenge. And then 

“ And theii,” be interposed, looking up at me, “ what will she 
say to y.< u ?” 

“ She will say, as she has said before, ‘ I love you,’ and I shall 
make her my wife. You hear — my wife!” 

He still kept his dim eyes fixed upon my face, as he said: 

“You will tell her that you left me to die ?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ That though you had plenty, you denied me a morsel of 
bread ?” 

“ Yes.” 

“Then she will say as I say — that you are a devil.” 

Maddened by his defiance, I struck him in the face with my 
open hand. No sooner had I done so than 1 hated myself for 
the deed. He uttered no word , but rising feebly to his feet with 
a faint moan, began to totter away. Then suddenly, as I beheld 
him going, watched the feeble form, the ragged, trembling 
limbs, the bowed and tempest-beaten head, my hard, rocky 
heart felt a strange pang of pain, and in that moment was dis- 
tilled one drop of the heavenly dew, which men name Mercy. 

I would have called him back, but I was ashamed. 

Suddenly, as I watched him, he stumbled and fell forward 
upon his face. I waited for him to rise, but he lay still; and 
at last, eager to see if he were living, I went over and raised 
him up. 

But when I beheld him living, and his eyes wide open gazing 
strangely into mine, 1 released my hold and was ashamed, 
scai’ce knowing what to say. 

Get up!” I cried fiercely, though there was no fierceness left 
in my heart. “ Why are you lying here?” 

“ Begone,” he answered faintly. “ Leave me to die.” 

Much troubled, angry with him and with myself, hating my- 
self for a kind of feverish pity which I could not quite subdue, 
I walked back to the tnouth of the cave; and there 1 stood 
thinking. Should 1 leave him to die indeed! Should I, having 
plenty, see him, even my enemy, perish of cruel starvation ? 


QOD AND THE MAN. 


17 


Then I thought of /zer, whose dear name he had uttered in a 
pleading tone of prayer. Was the man right? and would she, 
whose holv approval 1 cherished secretly more tl.au all else in 
eartli or hf^a'-’f-n. deem me a devil indeed ? 1 remembered i.ow 
often slu had tried to play the peact-maker; how she had chid 
my violent uas^ioa. scorned my unreasoning hate — how sweetly, 
witli iiin. cent maidenly ivbuke she had touched the iiard rock 
of my hute in hopes to bring from ilience the living waters of 
charity and love. 

Then I looked around me, on the cold heaven and on the 
frosty sea. If that island of desolation were to be my graie (as 
indeed seemed probable), could I die in peace, or in any heavenly 
hope, if I had denied to any poor starving creature a little mor- 
sel of bread ? 

My mind being at last made up, I returned to the place where 
the man still lay. and standing over against him said: 

“Get up— and listen.’’ 

He did not stir, but by a low moaning sound gave sign that 
he heard. 

You shall not say that I took everything, and left you noth- 
ing; but remember, what you take is no gift of mine, and that 
1 hate you none the less though I suffer you to take it. Go to 
my cave yonder, and select what you need — God knows 1 care 
not if you take all; but having taken it, find a place for your- 
self; cross not my path, but choose your own dvvelling and your 
own grave — no matter where, if they are far from mine.” 

Without waiting to hear his answer, I vvalked away, and 
passing over the stony heights sought the loneliest shores of the 
island. There I remained for hours, wondering and pondering. 
God could surely not blame me now? I had left all I possessed 
in the world to the man I hated; and I was indifferent (as 1 had 
said) had he used it. All I asked was to be spared the sight of 
him, the horrible torture of his near neighborhood. Surely God 
would now spare me that 9 

It was not to be. I had prayed to the Maker to place the man 
in my power, wholly, unreservedly, to do with as I willed; to 
give him up to me for torture, for sorrow, and for death. My 
prayer was answered, but not to the full measure. The rest 
was yet to come. 

At last I returned across the island. Returning to the mouth 
of my cave, and looking in, the first sight I saw was Richard 
Orchardson, lying with his head against the rocky wall, in a 
lieavy sleep! In his hand he held a piece of hard rye bread, 
which he had been gnawing, and a portion of dried seal’s flesh 
lay by his side, also partly consumed; but what sickened me as 
I benl over him was a sickly stench of rum. 

Close to him was the keg of raw spirit, and the piece of 
hollow stone which I had used for a cup; and some of the 
rum was spilt upon the ground, and upon the sleeper’s ragged 
clothes. 

I shook him, but he did not waken; when I shook him yet 
more violently, he opened his glazed eyes, saw me, and grinned 


178 QOD A^U THE MAN. 

like an ape— then, muttering to himself^ tumbled off again to 
slumber. 

Then I knew, by the signs around him, by his foul condition 
and by his stinking breath, that he had made himself drunken 
with the raw spirit; and seeing this, all my rage of hate re- 
turned, and I pushed his body fiercely with my feet, bidding him 
arise and depart. But he was drugged and stupefied, and paid 
no heed. 

Thereon I would have raised him in my arms and cast him 
forth, but looking up I saw the snow again beginning to fall, 
and I knew that if I cast him forth he would perish of cold. 
So after trying again to arouse him from his stupor, I let him 
sleep on. 

Presently he began to murmur in his sleep, and I knew by his 
words that he was dreaming wild dreams. Anon he threw up 
his arms as if to shield himself from a blow. 

“Sweetheart, keep him away! He is coming to kill me. Look, 
look at the ax! Ah, devil, devil!” 

And he clutched at the air, as if struggling with some foe un- 
seen. 

Suddenly with a cry he awakened, and opening his eyes, saw 
me sitting over against him, in the shadow of the cave. 

CHAPTER XXXIV. 

COME BACK WITH ME! 

Now, the fumes of the fierce spirit not having faded from his 
brain, and his whole mind being clouded and fevered from 
sleep, he gazed at me wildly, yet with no sign of fear; then, to 
my amaze, began to laugh feebly, and point at me with a skinny 
forefinger. 

“ Priscilla, come!” he whispered, as if to some one at his side. 
“ They have put him in irons, and he cannot stir. Give me your 
hand, sweetheart — quick! quick! the ship’s afire!” 

Tlien, though I saw that his wits were wandering, his words 
brought back the memory of that wild night when the ship went 
down, and remembering my suspicion that his hand had fired 
the vessel, I loathed him the more. Presently his words grew 
wilder, and I saw that he was going over in his thoughts all the 
horrors of our shipwreck; and ever, as he fancied, Priscilla was 
at his side, he comforting her with loving words. 

Sick to liear him rave, yet still without the heart to cast him 
forth, I rose to leave the cave. As I passed him, he clutched at 
me feebly, yet hardly seemed to know me when I turned and 
shook off his hold. 

So I went forth, and found the snow still falling, and the sun 
just sunken behind the sea. 

Wildly troubled, T walked along through the drift, which in 
places was knee-deep, and tried to think it all o’er; and the more 
I thought, the more my trouble grew; and when it was quite 
dark, I sat bareheaded on a rock, bewildered in the misty per- 
plexity of mine own thought. For it seemed strange beyond 
measure, and beyond measure cruel and unbearable, that this 


QOD AND THE MAN. 179 

man I loatlied most should haunt me like a ghost, and mock 
me with the memory of my life-long unreasoning hate; that 
the same fate should pursue us both, until the same roof shel- 
tered us and the same death ayvaited us not far away; that all 
my dream of vengeance sliould have come to naught but foolish 
piteousness and a dreary sense of unutterable despair. 

Then I thouglit to myself that, since fate had willed all this 
for my confusion, I would at least escape the man’s presence, 
and avoid the place till he was dead; or, if I should perish first, 
and be buried beneath the snow, so much the better, since I be- 
gan to loathe my life. 

Presently it grew so bitterly cold that if I had remained still 
I should have frozen; and lacking courage to die that way, I ran 
to and fro to keep myself warm. And now a great wind began 
to rise, howling and shrieking from the north, and thick snow, 
falling and driven, covered me, so that I could hardly breathe. 

Then I laughed at mine own folly, in yielding up ray warm 
shelter to another, and such another; and without more ado, 
casting all my late resolves to the winds, I ran back to the cave, 
leaped down, and groping my way over the man’s body (for the 
place was bkick dark), felt about till I found my smoldering fire, 
and procured a light. 

When I had lit one of my rushlights and fixed it against the 
rock, I saw Richard Orchardson lying where I had left him, 
sleeping fast with his eyes wide open, and indeed I should 
have deemed him dead had I not heard his troubled, stertorous 
breath. 

Twice or thrice the wind rushed in and extinguished my light; 
so I went to the apertuie, and carefully drew dowm upon it the 
rock I used for a door; and after that I put fuel on the fire, 
though the place remained bitter cold. 

Thus it befell, after all, that I lay under the same roof with 
my enemy — an event that, but a little w^hile before, I should 
have deemed impossible and laughed to scorn. His life had been 
in my hands, and I had not taken it; he had asked me for food 
and shelter, and I had denied him neither; and there, almost 
touching me, he lay and lived. Looking upon him as lie slept, 

I despised myself for my weakness, since I had spared him, not 
out of loving kindness, but from feebleness and fear. 

Ah, well! hate is easy, God know^eth, out in the wmrld where 
men battle with one another; but it is hard, as I have proven, 
when two men are all alone with God. 

All night the wdnd wailed terribly, with violent gusts, but 
Richard Orchardson slept sound. For myself, I scarcely rested 
at all, but whenever I dozed would wake suddenly, with a 
nameless terror in my heart. 

No ray of light from without penetrated our place of shelter; 
the fumes of the moss fuel rose up in red clouds and filled the 
cave with dimness; and in that dimness I lay restless, till the 
cold day came. 

From time to time I lifted the rock and looked out, and at 
last, after many weary hours, I saw the dim rays of wintery 
dawn. 


180 


GOD AND THE MAN. 


Then T threw back the rock, and the blast blew in with heavy 
drifts of loosened snow; whereon I saw him waken, with eyes 
of terror gazing up at me. His face was ghastly, his cheeks 
sunken, and be shivered like one with an ague, chattering his 
teeth. 

I stood erect, with my face averted from his, while I said: 

“Listen, man! Are you listening?” 

“ Yes.” 

“You were drunken last night, and I let you lie where you 
fell: but this place is mine. Your presence poisons it; you have 
no right here. Find yourself another shelter.” 

He rose, shivering as I spoke, and prepared to leave the 
cavern. 

Then I continued: 

“You shall not say that I left you to starve. Take what I 
offered you yesterday — a portion of what I saved from the 
ship; take it, and go; all I wish is never to see your face again.” 

So saying I leaped out into the snow, and without Once turn- 
ing to look back, walked rapidly away. 

And now, as I went through the deep snow, and sought my 
point of vantage on the highest part of the island (whence it was 
my daily custom to search the seas for a sail), I saw that winter 
had come indeed; for not only was the island itself one mass of 
whiteness, from the highest land down to the very brink of the 
sea, but the great floe to the eastward was smothered in drifts 
of snow, and far away northward, where the dawn w.as burn- 
ing duskily, like a sullen brand, there was the blink of innu- 
merable anchored bergs. Southward and eastward only the seas 
were clear, save for one or two loose icebergs drifting toward 
the horizon; and one of these was so like a ship with all sails 
set that my Jieart leaped into my mouth, and I uttered a joyful 
cry. Alas! I soon discovered that what I saw was a floating ice- 
berg only, and no ship at all. 

Descending the crags on the westward side of the island, I 
roamed along the shore; and here the breath of the sea was so 
fresh and warm that it seemed more like summer than winter 
tide. But save only a few gulls and terns, and some seals 
swimming among the creeks, there was no sign of life. The 
little friendly bird which had so reminded me of my home, and 
which I had noticed nigh eveiw day chirping about the sands, 
was nowhere to be seen; and even the flocks of green cormo- 
rants had left their roosts upon the outlying reefs. 

So I wandered along the lonely shore, listening to the sad 
surging sound of the sea. 

I noted that day that the sun, which was constantly obscured 
by black clouds, kept low down upon the horizon, circling west- 
ward, but never rising up into the open heaven; so that the day 
was very brief, and, almost before I knew it, it was afternoon. 
For hours I struggled with the pangs of hunger, not having yet 
broken my fast; but at last, finding the gnawing within 
too much to bear any longer, I returned to the cavern in the 
heights. 

As I approached, I saw Richard Orchardson standing at the 


OOD AND THE MAN, 


181 


cavern's mouth; and an3' heart but mine would have pitied 
him— so haggard did he look, and woe-begone, so gray and old. 

Now, the moment he saw me coming, he began to move 
away; but I came up to him, and called to him to stand. 

So he paused, gazing at me sadly, with an expression of utter 
despair. 

“ Have you taken your share of the ship’s goods?” I asked. 

“I have taken nothing,” lie replied, in a faint voice. 

“I gave you leave to take food and find yourself another 
shelter, I did this, not because you deserve succor, but that you 
might not come begging to me again. Since you have let'^the 
chance slip, begone!” 

“ I am going,” be replied. 

“Remember that I warned you,” I continued violently. “ Mv 
soul sickens at the sight of you, but I wmuld not stain my hands 
with your miserable blood! By right your life belongs to me. 
If you cross me again I shall take it, though I have spared it 
hitherto.” 

As I ceased, he turned his great sunken eyes upon me, and I 
no longer saw in them any sign of fear. Despair will give 
courage even to timorous men, and to beasts tiiat startle at 
their own shadows. 

“You have done your worst,” he said, in the same faint, hol- 
low voice. “Why (3id you not kill me, as 1 prayed ?” 

“Did I not tell you? Because you are not worth killing. 
Because you cannot escape from this place, and must die with- 
out any touch of mine.” 

He looked around on the snow- clad island, and on the deso- 
late sky and sea; his eyes grew dim and wet, though no tears 
fell; and dropping his head like a death-struck beast, as he 
turned away he uttered his whole sad soul in one faint, de- 
spairing cry, 

“ O God! my God!” 

Now, had the man fallen upon his knees and asked piteously 
for mercy, or had he fled from me in guilty fear, I knovV 
my heart would have hardened against him as it had done 
before; but seeing him so desolately resigned, and feeling bow 
little he cared for life, I was moved to a secret compassion. 
His agonized cry to Heaven rang through my heart; it was so 
hopeless and so sad. 

“ Stay,” I said, “ I have not done with you yet!” 

He turned again, and gazed upon me. 

“Answer me one question before we part. Did you fire the 
ship?” 

I saw his face change, while his lips were set convulsively. 

“ No,” he said, fixing his eyes full on mine. 

“You swear it?” 

“ Of w'^hat avail would it be to swear? I tell you — no.” 

“ Are you lying to me? Yes, I see it in your face. You 
are lying! Do you think I am fool enough to believe you?” 

“ I care not what you believe. Now let me go.” 

“ No, you shall stay!” 

And reaching out my hands, I held his arm in the vise of my 


183 


ODD AND THE MAN, 


strong grip. Why I did this I knew not, only I was angry with 
my own compassion, and tried to lash myself into a fury I did 
not feel. 

“ AVhat do you want with me?” he cried, helpless in my grasp 
as a sick child. 

And I knew not how to answer him. My whole mind was 
clouded with doubt, and I was fearful lest he should guess my 
weakness of purpose. Only I felt that I could not let him de- 
part desolate, to' die in some secret place. “ If I let you go, 
will you promise never to return ?” 

“ I will promise.” 

“ Never to come my way, to beg sustenance from me, to let 
me see your face ?” 

“You need not be afraid,” he replied; “I shall not trouble 
you again.” 

“ What will you do ?” 

“ God knows. Die— the sooner the better.” 

“You wish to die?” 

“Yes.” 

I looked at him fixedly, for some moments, as if to read his 
very heart, before I spoke again. 

“ Then you shall live. You shall not have your wish. Como 
back with me.” 

So saying 1 forced rather than led him toward the cave, lie 
seemed enraged at first, but afterward, seeing his helplessness, 
he made no resistance, but walked feebly with me the way I 
led him; his head drooping heavily forward on his breast, and 
his limbs trembling beneath him. 

When we came to the cave, I bade him enter. After a mo- 
ment’s hesitation, he obeyed, and sank shivering on the spot 
where he had lain the previous night. 

Then I entered the place also, and feeling again the pinch of 
hunger, cut off with my clasp-knife a portion of dried seal’s 
flesh, and with that and some crumbled biscuits began to break 
my fast. I ate ravenously, until my hunger was appeased; 
then, looking up, I saw him, with his head resting against the 
rock, and his eyes half closed. 

I took some seal’s flesh and a biscuit, and threw them to him, 
as I might have thrown them to a dog. 

“ There is food,” I said. “ Eat!” 

He did not stir, but opened his eyes quietly, as he replied: 

“ I am not hungry.” 

“Eat, I tell you!” 

And with an oath that shall not be written here, I brandished 
the knife before his eyes. 

I do not think he was afraid; perchance, he by this time knew 
my heart better than I knew it myself; but be that as it may, 
he reached out his thin white hands, and taking what I had so 
roughly given liim, put a morsel to his lips. 


GOD AND THE MAN. 




CHAPTER XXXV. 

THE AURORA. 

I WAS ever a simple man, little given to book reading or 
analyzing (as wise men love to do) their own thoughts; and 
when I led Richard Orchardson back to mv cave and gave 
him food to eat, I knew no more what spirit moved me than I 
know why the winds blow divers ways, and \vhy stars oft- 
times shoot from yonder sky. This only I remember, that mv 
mood was so mingled and confused, tliat while I threw hini 
food with one hand, I could have struck him fiercely with the 
other. 

This, too, was very strange to me then, though I understand 
it better now; that in proportion to the man’s helplessness grew 
his mastery over me. In his very weakness lay bis strength 
against me. When he sunk down powerless before me, careless 
how I used him, indifferent alike to my wrath and to my com- 
passion, I seemed to hear a voice crying in mine ear, “ Ah! cow- 
ard! coward!”— but at every cry of this voice I steeled my heart 
the more. 

Then I tried to persuade myself that what T did was dojie in 
cruelty, not in feebleness; that I had brought him there and forced 
him to eat, not because I cared whether he lived or died, but 
because I took pleasure in his extremity, and could leisurely 
feast mine eyes upon his pain. It was something, after all, to 
hold his life in my hand— to watch him as a wild beast or bird 
watches its prey — to feel that he was utterly, hopelessly, fatally, 
within ray power. Yes, that made amends. I had dragged 
him out of the sunshine of the world; I held him down as in an 
open grave, and whenever I pleased the earth would cover him. 
Surely 1 had accomplished my revenge. 

Night came again, and found us lying close to one another, in 
the darkness of the cave. 

I slept heavily for some hours; and then, full of restlessness, 

I rose and looked out. Then I saw that the wind had fallen, 
and that the sky above was beautifully clear. 

I glanced down at him, and saw him lying still, with his head 
against the rock; sleeping, as I thought, for I could hear his 
heavy breathing. 

In my fevered watchfulness I loathed to remain in the place 
poisoned to me (as it seemed) by his breath; so I left the cave, 
and wandered out into the night. 

Then I beheld for the first time a wonder which many and 
many a time afterward filled my soul with awe, and which even 
now, as I sit in this land of dark skies and grayness, seems like 
the memory of a beautiful dream. As I came out upon the 
height, and looked around me, I saw the heavens to the north- 
ward sparkling, as through a veil of the thinnest lawn, with in- 
numerable constellations. All was still as death; the snow- clad 
island, the darkly glimmering sea on every side. 

Then suddenly, as I gazed northward, there appeared spanning 
the heavens a great broad bow of phosphorescent light: out of 


184 


GOD AND THE MAN, 


tl)is bow began to fall sparkling streams of clearest blood -red 
fire; and in an instant, shooting up from the horizon, rose flames 
of all the rainbow’s hues, but infinitely brighter, darting up 
witli quivering tongues to meet the flames of the bow — till all 
the heavens seemed afire. 

Then, a great awe fell upon me, beholding so wonderful a 
thing. 

As I gazed, shapes like living forms, nay, like angels in their 
overpowering brightness, seemed coming and going among the 
flames; which rushing presently together, as if by enchantment, 
fashioned themselves into a glorious cupola of splendor, filling 
the whole heaven, and overflowing like a fountain in streams of 
vari colored light, amber-yellow at the top (where the fountain 
feathers itself and turns to fall), bright emerald and amethyst- 
ine lower down, and blood -crimson closer to the horizon; and 
all these hues so flashing an d changing, so sparkling and inter- 
mingling one witli another, that the eyes were dazzled, and the 
soul seemed gazing on the tremulous fabric of a dream. 

Now, had the heavens opened, and the very face of God ap- 
peared in the midst of that supernatural brightness, I could not 
have wondered more; for divine the vision seemed, and of more 
than earthly glory, like the glory of the celestial City of God. 

Underneath the many-colored heaven, the sea now lay black 
as ink, and the snow -fields assumed a ghastly whiteness, like 
the cerements of the dead; for it seemed a splendor in which the 
dark earth had no share, and for which the sea had no reflec- 
tion; a thing, indeed, wholly divine, supernatural, and unac- 
countable. 

T know not how long the vision lasted, but it must have been 
for hours, and while it shone and changed I did not cease to 
watch. But at last it began to die away out of the heavens; 
and soon, like a picture fading from the eye, it was almost gone, 
all that remained being a few straggling beams (like the little 
blue flames that run along burning spirit), low down upon the 
horizon. 

I did not know then that this beautiful phenomenon of the 
aurora is in no sense extraordinary in this region, but common, 
and wliolly in the way of nature. Afterward I learned to be- 
come familiar with it. and to marvel less. And yet, what am I 
saying ? What is this same nature that surrounds us but a per- 
petual miracle and matter for marvel ? Should the coming and 
going of the sun, the motions of the celestial bodies, the change- 
ful seasons, with all their mysterious changes, awaken our 
wonder less because they are familiar as the fields where we were 
born ?* 

Nay, indeed, but what simple fools are men? Those who 

-X- ‘I Our writer here, good man, gets out of his depth, and flounders 
into mysticism, a mode of thought ever to be distrusted. Nothing can 
be more simple and methodical than the machinery of Nature — nothing 
clearer than its lessons of punctual duty; and the Creator cares far less 
that we should marvel at Ills glory than that we should comprehend 
plainly His teachings, as a law for life. Our Lord, by that token, was 
the plainest and least visionary of them.”— J. W. 


GOD AND THE MAN. 


185 


scarce heed the miracles of sunrise and sunset will gape with awe 
at a rick on fire. Folk who take no heed how the kingfisher 
builds his nest, or how the cuckoo rears her callow young, will 
find endless delight in a screaming pairoquet, brought home by 
some sailor in a cage. 

’Tis the unfamiliar that charms the fool; whereas to the wise 
man the nearest, thing is oft the most divine. 

Be that as it may, my stormy spirit was by this manifestation 
of superhum power and loveliness sensibly subdued and soft- 
ened. I walked back to my cave like one that has seen a spirit 
passing before his face; nay, rather, for a closer similitude, like 
Moses when he beheld the presence of God in the midst of the 
burning bush. 

The man still lay as I had left him, but as I entered he started, 
and cried out in terror. 

Then I said: 

“Are you awake? I wish to speak with you, for the last 
time.” 

He said nothing, but I knew that he was listening, and I con- 
tinued: 

“ I have thought it all over, and I shall leave God to deal with 
you as you deserve, We are cast away together, and in all 
human likelihood we shall perish on this island. Well, if you 
leave this place, you will cast your death at my door; and you 
shall not have that consolation. Now, attend.” 

“Go on,” he replied. 

“ Since there is no other shelter on the island, you may 
remain; and since there is no other sustenance but the ship’s 
stores, you shall share them; but on these conditions: During 
the day time, if I come here, you will go forth, and when I go 
forth, you may return. During the night-time, when to go 
forth is impossible, you will keep your place. I mine. But if at 
any time you utter one word, if you attempt in any w^ay to 
break the eternal silence of hate that should exist between us, 
our compact is broken: I shall kill you, or drive you forth never 
to return. 

I paused again, and his voice murmured in the darkness: 

“ As you will.” 

“ Understand me well,” I continued. “ This is my last word to 
you, Richard Orchardson. There must be no communion 
between us by speech or look. I shall avoid you, and take heed 
that you avoid me. Henceforth I shall be no more conscious of 
your presence than of a stone or a piece of rock-weed. I shall 
blot you forever from my sight, from my thought, from my 
memory— from this night forth. You will be to me as a thing 
dead. You understand?” 

“Yes.” 

“ You swear to keep these conditions?” 

“Yes.” 

So it was sworn; and from that moment darkness and silence 
like death came between us, though we were alone together in 
all the world. 


m 


GOD AND THE MAN 


CHAPTER XXXVI. 

THE BEAR. 

Thus it befell that we two abode together in the same dwell- 
ing, if I may call that a dwelling which, with nature helping 
me, I fashioned with my rude hands; so near to each other tliat 
we could hear each other breathing, yet so far from each other 
that we never exchanged look or word. As far as might be, I 
averted my soul as a man averts his face— avoiding him in the 
day-time, forgetting him in the silence of the night; yet all in 
vain; for I was conscious of him unceasingly, and his shadow 
darkened my most secret thoughts. 

I have read so^ne where, in some old book or newspaper, of 
two poor sisters who, full of an unnatural hate, dwelt together 
like this in the same room in a great town; being too poor to 
take separate lodgings, they divided their wretched room by a 
line made with chalk across the floor; and so, with the chalk 
line only between them, abode in silence for a score of weary 
years; until one was carried out feet foremost, and the other, 
still cruel and unforgiving, was left alone. Of such hard stuff, I 
know, some hearts are made: of rock instead of flesh, and hard 
as the upper and nether millstone. Yet these foolish women had 
busy sounds of life all round to cheer them — the tramp of feet, 
voices, and all the motion of a great city; while we, whose 
hearts were no less hard, and whose condition was surely as 
sorry in the sight of God, bad only the naked heavens, and the 
troubled sea, and the punctual changes of darkness and of 
light. 

Stubborn and unforgiving, grudging the mercy I had shown 
(which was no true mercy, but feebleness and fear), I came and 
went. The days were now briefer than ever, and the nights 
very long and dreary, but tliough winter had surely set in, the 
temperature was not yet too cold to bear with patience, and 
even with comfort. For the soft swell of the southern ocean, 
which is ever warm like living breath, greatly subdues tlie 
violence of the climate of the islands in that region, so that 
neither man nor beast need perish, as they must needs do under 
like conditions a few degrees nearer to the north. 

Nevertheless, the cold was sharp and keen, the life beyond • 
measure unseasonable and hard to bear. The island was draped 
in whiteness, and far away to the north stretched the vast fields 
of silent ice; while to southward and westward, where the 
seas thundered unfrozen, great chill mists, like steam from a 
caldron, were constantly arising. Nowhere was any sign of 
life; nay, not even a withered tree, a leafless bush, to mimic 
summer greenery with leaves and flowers of hueless ice. No 
sign, no similitude, of that green world which 1 had lost, never, 
perchance, to find again 1 

There was but one way to defy the loneliness of nature and 
the sad monotony of the elements, and that was to discover 
some vigorous occupation to fatigue the frame while light 
lasted. This occupation T found in chasing and killing the poor 


GOD AND THE MAN. 


187 


seals of the sea; and although I was without firearms or any 
kind of projectile, T contrived by cunning and stratagem to slay 
full many of them, as I had slain the first. 

’Twas a wild beast’s life, but it kept me from perishing. 
From morn to night I would prowl and crawl and watch, or 
swiftly run, as the simple quarry led me; crafty, cruel-eyed, 
swift, stealthy, as any predatory beast. 

The foolish seals, which swarmed in the creeks and caves of 
those lonely shores, were of divers breeds; some large as sheep 
that graze on our downs, others small as the otters of ourrivers. 
I saw none of the great tusked species which some mariners tell 
of; great as bulls, and as savage when assailed. Some had 
coarse rough skin, which would have been worthless even in the 
hands of a skillful tanner; others had hair as long and coarse as 
wool; and others, again, were smooth, red, and silken, glisten- 
iug like oil in the sun. 

My best sport was out upon the ice, where I was wont, by 
watchfulness and strategy, to intercept the beasts when they 
came from the water holes to bask in the sun. Being asleep, 
they are easily surprised by one who is careful to seek them up 
the wind; for their hearing is dull in proportion to the keenness 
of their scent, as I have very frequently proved. 

Besides these animals, and now and then a shoal of white 
whales out in the sea southward, there were few signs of life. 
Most of the sea-birds had disappeared, with the exception of 
some solitary gulls, and from time to time a lonely gahnet, or 
sea-goose, driven northward by some ocean storm. 

The flesh and oil of the seals I thus slew kept me well sup- 
plied with fresh food and light; and presently, to beguile the 
weariness of the long nights, I set to work and fashioned my- 
self a rude covering, or overcoat, of the skins, which covering I 
would wear when the wind blew cold, or when much snow fell. 
I also wove several coverlets of warm skin to draw over me at 
night. 

Meantime, how fared the companion of my cave? 

Well, he kept the conditions, and spake not, neither looked 
my way; while I, with face averted, toiled close by. And ever 
in the day time, when I entered lie would creep out. and crawl 
like a forlorn thing about the island. But he made no effort to 
liunt for himself, seeming altogether too feeble and faint of 
heart. 

Now one night, when the cold was strangely keen even within 
the cave, I heard him breatliing hard and shivering: and after 
a sharp struggle within of shame and pity, 1 took several of 
my warm skins, roughly sewn together, and threw them unto 
him. 

He started and looked up, so that our eyes met. Then, with- 
out speaking, I made a sign to him to take the skins, which he 
forthwith drew over him, and presently fell to sleep. 

* * yt * * * 

I had taken no strict count of the flight of days, and had no 
kind of reckoner or guide in that dreary place; but so far as I 
could guess, we were now midway in the month of December. 


188 


OOD AND THE MAN. 


For it was early in November when the Dutch ship was beset 
among the ice, and several long weeks had passed since then. 

To me, thus miserably cast away, one day was so like an- 
other that I almost failed to distinguish eacli from each; nor did 
I discern the six days from the seventh, but labored witliout a 
Sabbatli— the gracious day which to weary and heavy-hearted 
men is so full of rest and blessing. 

And yet, being ever a profane man, little given to prayer and 
church-going, I missed not that consecration of one day out of 
seven; nor did my thoughts any day turn heavenward, either 
for strength or consolation. 

But now I am about to record a thing which at the time moved 
me strangely; and of which I cannot think even now without a 
curious stirring of the heart. 

One day, which might have been a Sabbath-day indeed, so 
still and sweet were earth and heaven and sea, I wandered forth 
as usual. Not a breath stirred, the air was full of a pleasant 
and balmy chillness, and the sun circled along the horizon with 
mild and gentle beams. 

Seeing it so fair, I paused at the mouth of the cave, and draw- 
ing off my sealskin overcoat, threw it back upon my bed; then I 
took my hatchet, which I used ever as a weapon, and wandered 
away. 

First I roamed along the western cliffs, searching the creeks 
for anything alive; but all I saw was swarms of seal swimming 
out at sea, and basking upon the ilistant reefs. Far off, in a 
patch of violet calm, a whale was spouting; and so still vvas the 
air, that I could hear the roar of his blow-hole from where I 
stood. 

Then I clambered down to the western shore, and found noth- 
ing there. 

Returning over the island, I made straight for the fields of ice; 
for although from the heights I could discern no sign of life 
upon them, I knew that the water- holes and the ice in their close 
vicinity were favorite haunts of the beasts I sought. 

I rambled about the i. e for hours, and although, as I had ex- 
pected, I saw many seals, none were foolish enough to let me 
come nigh; till at last, as I was returning dissatisfied, I fell upon 
one of the small silken-coated species fast asleep upon the 
floe. Coming round a great hummock, I was close upon it ere 
I knew, and ere it could reach the neighboring water I killed it 
with a dexterous blow. 

Now the be.ist was so light and small that I threw it bodily 
upon my shoulder, and carried it easily away; when, as I ap- 
proached the gloomy shore, I was startled by a wild shriek as of 
a human being in mortal fear. 

The next moment I saw, running swiftly toward me, the wild 
figure of a man, no other indeed than Richard Orcbardson; and 
well might he shriek in terror, for behind him, at a gallop was 
a huge white bear— the first beast of the kind I had seen in these 
regions. 

These animals are indeed fatal to man, having the lion’s 
swiftness, the fierceness of the wild cat, and the sinuousuess of 


GOD AND THE MAN. 


189 


the snake; and this that I beheld was a true monster of the 
Ijreed, with huge shaggy paws, mighty talons, and horrible 
crimsons jaws. 

Even as I gazed the man sped toward me, but before he 
could reach me, as was clearly his intent, slipped and fell upon 
his face. 

The bear, which was some thirty yards behind, paused a mo- 
ment, seeing him fall, and beholding me for the first time; then, 
without hesitation, it. came bounding on — with just the same 
wavy sinuous motion, just the same cruel swiftness, thougli it 
was so great a monster, as hath the lissome weasel of our En- 
glish woods and fields. 

Then my heart leaped in my mouth, for I saw that the man 
was lost. 

As I write, it all comes back to me — the lonely field of ice, 
the fallen man, the horrible hungry beast approaching with 
open mouth; and I see the man now, as I saw him then, turn 
up his white face with one wild look of horror and despair. 

I had no time to think, to pause; in another minute the 
beast’s fangs would have been at his throat, its tongue lapping 
his blood. Before I knew what I was doing, I had thrown down 
the dead seal, and, bounding forward, placed myself between 
the beast and the fallen man. 

There, hatchet in hand, with set teeth, I stood, half a dozen 
yards from the bear. 

Now, before such a mighty animal as that, an unarmed man 
is helpless; and I had only my hatchet, which, in such a 
struggle, would have been useless as a straw. But, as God 
willed it, something in my erect and defiant attitude made the 
beast pause in his career. 

He paused, looked at me, sniffed with his nostrils, and uttered 
an ominous growl. 

For one moment my fate hung in the balance, and surely, had 
I now retreated a step, or shown any sign of fear, I should 
have perished; but instead of retreating I advanced steadily, 
my eyes fixed firmly on those of the bear, the hatchet raised as 
if to strike; and out of my very desperation I uttered a savage 
try! 

As I advanced, the bear retreated sideways, still growling 
terribly; and at last, to my great joy, began to creep rapidly 
away. 

Running in a circle, it avoided me. Thrice it turned, hesi- 
tated, and thrice I advanced as if to the attack. Then, to my 
astonishment, I saw it rise on its hind legs, sniffing the air; 
then, with its nose close to the ice, it galloped round to the spot 
where I had left the dead seal. 

As it did so, Richard Orchardson, who had been looking on in 
wonder, ran toward me, and again put my body between him 
and the bear; which now, seizing the seal with teeth and 
talons, tore it piecemeal and devoured its flesh eagerly, only 
pausing now and then to throw up its head and utter fierce 
growls of gluttonous delight. 

I saw that we were saved, and for the first time felt a sense 


190 


GOD AND THE MAN. 


of overmastering terror, feeling what manner of horrible death 
I had escaped; so without more delay I hastened away to the 
shore, leaving the savage beast to the meal I had procured 
for it. , , 

As I went Richard Orchardson followed me, so near that he 
might have touched me with his hand. 

It was not till some hours afterward that I clearly realized 
what I had done; nay, perhaps, if the truth were told, I did not 
wholly realize it till after many years. 

But be that as it may the thing w’^as done. I had preserved, 
at the risk of my own life, the life of the man I hated most in 
all the world. 


CHAPTER XXXVII. 

VIGIL. 

I REACHED the shore, and climbed the cliff until I gained the 
snow-clad height. Pausing there, I turned and saw Richard 
Orchardson standing close by me, with his eyes on mine. 

Then a foolish kind of anger seized me, for I loathed myself 
for having done what I had done; and without remembering 
our pact, I broke the silence that had dwelt so long between us. 

“Why do you follow me?” I cried. “ Did I not warn you?” 

He gazed at me sadly, as he replied, in another question: 

“ Why did you save my life?” 

I could have struck him in the face. I turned from him with 
a gesture of loathing and dislike. 

“ Why did you save my life ?” he repeated, following me. “ I 
did not wish to live.” 

I turned and faced him. 

“ Do you think I saved you out of pity ? I saw you were a 
coward, and I thought to myself, ‘ He shall not die yet;’ that 
was all. Now go — keep your miserable life, and let us part 
here.” 

1 would have left him, but he still persisted. His manner was 
so desolate, so despairing, his voice so hollow and sad, that I 
listened in spite of myself. 

“ Why can there not be peace between us? I have as much 
cause for hate as you, and yet I am willing to forget the past. 
Since we shall never leave this place alive, why need we quar- 
rel still? You must have a hard heart to hate so bitterly and so 
long.” 

“Begone!” I said, between my set teeth. “I will not be 
judged by you. I shall never forget, nor forgive.” 

“As you will,” he answered bitterly, “but methinks hate is 
foolish, seeing we are so utterly cast away. And your acts 
belie your words. Had you not given me food and shelter, I 
should have been a dead man long ere this. Had you not inter- 
posed, I should have died by the bear.” 

I knew not what to reply, for his words were true enough, 
and although I was ashamed of my own benefactions (which 
sprung not out of true compassion, but a feebleness and in- 


OOD AND THE MAN. 191 

firmity of will), I had indeed saved him agair and again from 
death. 

Seeing me hesitate, and misconceiving perchance the emo- 
tions of mingled shame and rage which then possessed me, he 
reached out his thin hands and touched me. I shuddered as if 
T had been stung. 

“ Since I owe my life to you,” he said, “ let me owe you some- 
thing more. It has 'long been upon my mind to utW the re- 
quest which I am now about to speak. I think I shall die here, 
but you are strong, and help may come. Well, when I die, do 
not let the wild beasts devour me, but buiy me in tlie ground, 
like a Christian man.” 

“ Ask nothing from me,” I said, repulsing him. 

“ Ah! but promise!” he cried, his eyes full of feeble tears, 
“ And promise one thing more. If you are saved, if you return 
to England, as indeed may be, go to my poor father, and tell 
him how I died; yet break it to him gently, for the old man 
loves me, and he is the only living soul to mourn me when 1 am 
gone.” 

I gazed at him in w'onder, for I could scarce believe mine 
ears. Did he think I was made of wax, that I had no bitterness 
of memory, no fortitude of hate, when he asked such charity 
from me ? Did he think I would spare an Orchardson one drop 
of pain, one pang of the sorrow he had given to me and mine ? 

“ Will you promise ?” he pleaded. “ Then I can die in 
peace.” 

And he sobbed like a child, hiding his face in his hands. 

I did not answer him, but with one fierce look, into which I 
sought to concentrate all my long life of loathing, I left him to 
his tears. 

Night came, and 1 lay alone in the cave. 

Several hours had passed since I had left Richard Orchardson 
on the cliff, and when at sunset I had returned to my place of 
shelter he had not returned. After making up my fire, I busied 
myself making candles of dry seal -fat and rough twine. 

But when darkness fell, I could not help wondering why the 
man did not return. Could any fresh evil have overtaken him ? 
Although I w'as angry wdth myself for the solicitude, and al- 
though I was persuaded myself that I w^as cruelly indifferent, I 
could not help listening from time to time for the sound of his 
coming. Yet he came not, and suddenly, so perverse^ is our 
human disposition, I began reproaching myself for having left 
him so cruelly. 

I had risen to my feet, and was moving toward the entrance 
of the cave, thinking to look out in search for him, when I 
heard a strange sound above me, and the next instant he sprung 
down, wild with terror, and covered with snow^. 

“ Help!” he shrieked, and pointed to the opening by which he 
had entered. “ It has followed me again. Look!” 

And he fell upon his knees, clinging with his arms around me. 

Then, gazing toward the aperture above us (wdiich, as I have 
elsewhere explained, was just large enough to admit the body 


192 


GOD AND THE 3IAN. 


of a man), T saw two fierce glittering lights, which I knew to be 
the eyes of the bear. 

The monster was standing over against our cave, and, sur- 
prised at the strange brilliance within, was gazing curiously 
down. By the dim ray which issued forth from the fire and the 
lights fixed against the wall, I could dimly see the great shaggy 
head and the savage mouth. 

For a moment terror seized me; but speedily recovering my 
courage, I snatched down from the wall one of the burning 
lights, and holding it in my hand, approached the aperture. 
For I remembered having read that certain wild beasts liave a 
terror of fire, and that even fierce wolves of the forest, swarm- 
ing to destroy some hapless voyager, had been scattered by the 
waving of a burning brand. 

I shouted aloud, and thrust out the light full at the face of 
the bear. To mine own amazement the stratagem answered, 
and the great beast, startled and blinded by the flame, suddenly 
withdrew. 

Then I reached up my hand, and drew down the stone, clos- 
ing the opening to the cave. 

Turning to Richard Orchardson, I saw him still on his knees, 
as if praying. The moment he met mine eyes, he spake. 

“I was returning hither across the height,” he said, -‘when 
I heard the bear behind me, and I fled for fear.” 

I answered him straightway, using the mocking thought that 
came uppermost: 

“And 5’^et you craved to die?” 

“Not that wayl not that way!” 

As he spake, I heard above us the sound of the bear passing 
hither and thither, and scraping in the snow. The sound con- 
tinued for some minutes, during which I hearkened intently; 
then it ceased and all was still. 

The night passed, and the monster did not return; even had 
he done so, he could not readily have reached us to do us injury, 
protectfjd as we were by the stony covering of the cave, which 
was now hard-welded together by frost and snow. But I 
guessed, no doubt rightly, that the beast, being glutted with 
flesh of the seal, had followed Orchardson, not from savage 
hunger, but from foolish curiosit}', never perchance having 
seen^^a man before that day; so that when the flame was flashed 
into his brute face, he withdrew fearfully, puzzled by a thing 
unmatched and unaccountable in his cold experience. 

Be that as it may, ne returned not, and methinks he wandered 
far a\vay northward, for next day I tracked his great foot- 
prints over the island, across the shore, and thence back among 
the fields of ice. Doubtless he was a straggler from the chillier 
regions to the north, for during the wdiole time I remained 
upon the island of desolation I never saw another beast of that 
monstrous breed. 

I know not how it happened, but despite all my cruel an- 
tipathy for my companion, the experience of that day and night 
insensibly loosened the hard barrier of bitterness between us. 
C>nce or twice we exchanged speech,- though roughly and svil- 


GOD AKD THE MAN. 


193 


lenly, and, as before, I let him share my food and shelter; so 
that presently it seemed quite natural that he sliould partake 
equally of my cruel fortune, and my daily hope and fear., 

Every day I searched the seas for a sail, the ice for some sign 
of living folk; and every day when 1 returned, his pale face 
questioned mine for some sign to soften bis despair. But surely 
it was now hoping against hope; for winter had set in fixedly, 
and the days were brief and dim, and the breath of the Cold 
Clime was coming southward like an exhalation, wrapping the 
island in a constant shroud of frost and fog. 

We had thus much in common, despite our life-long hate; 
that we were equally cast away and abandoned, that we had 
each the same hope and the same despair, that we had both the 
same dark thoughts for company, the same sad cause for fear. 
Thus alike were our conditions, save that I was the stronger, 
having in my youth been tempered like iron by exposure to cold 
and storm. Thanks to my fierce yeoman blood, I throve where 
he failed, even in that intemperate and fatal air. 

Now, before many days had passed, I saw the face of my 
companion, which I watched furtively from time to time, grow 
thinner and paler, while great veins hardened on his delicate 
brow, and his breath came heavy and slow, as if from a painful 
chest. I noted, moreover, that he ate little, and that with a sore 
effort, ever sighing heavily between the mouthfuls, and moving 
his head from side to side. 

Every day he left the cave and moved feebly about the 
heights, but presently he scarcely moved at all, but would sit, 
with my coat of skins wrapped round him, upon a stone, look- 
ing wearily at the sea; then, when the cold seized him, and the 
teeth chattered in his head, he would creep back again to the 
cheerless warmth within. 

Meantime the rayless sun circled slowly along the horizon, 
never rising into tire dim zenith of the heaven; and sometimes 
for days together it was like a pure ball of blood, with neither 
heat nor rays. Then sheeted shapes of white mist and cold fog 
would float across the ice and cover the forlorn island, while the 
skies above were sadly veiled. 

It was brightest at night-time, in the silence of the the night; 
for often out of the very heart of the darkness, which was truly 
“darkness visible,” the wonderful aurora would arise, till the 
melancholy heavens seemed afire; and looking fearfully from 
that cold cave, I would see the phosphorescent boreal iris gleam 
and sparkle, dripping all colors of the prism, till methought that 
I beheld the miraculous splendors of the far-off Gates of God. 

I should grow wearisome to dullness if I sought to write down 
all the record of that long and painful vigil, of that daily life 
without change, without event, of that dull mechanical round 
of unbroken, desolate despair. 

We watched and waited, hoped and prayed; but no succor 
came. 

Then, feeling the terrible desolation of that silent and ghastly 
companionship with one a stranger and an enemy, I knew that, 
without such companionship, I should have sickened or gone 


194 


GOD ^\ND THE MAN. 


mad. It was something, at least, not to be utterly alone. It 
was something in the infinite dreariness of the long nights, to 
awaken, listen and hear a heavy breathing, close at hand. It 
was something to feel that, so near to me, another man might 
be dreaming, as I had just dreamed, of brightness, of the green 
fields of dear England, of a home in the far-off, happy fens. 

O God of mysteries. Fashioner of all wonders under the il- 
limitable heaven, whoso will made all creatures, and made of 
all creatures most pitiful. Thy servant Man I Thou hadst 
taken us into the hollow of Thy hand! Thou hadst lifted us 
out of the shadows of this low life, into the air that angels 
breathe! 

My spirit swoons, my hand trembles, as I try to record what 
is yet to come. 


CHAPTER XXXVIII. 

OUT IN THE SNOW. 

All one night, every time I did awaken, I beard him moan- 
ing in his sleep, and moving uneasily upon his hard bed. 

His mind was wandering, and again and again I heard him 
murmur familiar names; and once, indeed, he called my name 
aloud, in a tone so shrill and pitiful that my heart leaped into 
my mouth, and I felt afraid. 

But when the dark morning came, and I looked over to his 
sleeping place, he was not there. 

Looking up, I saw that the cave was open, and through the 
narrow aperture a sullen redness was creeping in. 

I waited for some time, thinking he would return; but when 
he came not, I cast my skins around me (for it was bitter cold) 
and crept out into the air. 

A cold fog covered the island, faintly tinged by the sinister 
redness of the morning sun; and so thick was the vapor all 
around that I could only distinguish things that were quite 
near, and even those looked large and phantasmal, being mag- 
nified by the clinging mist. 

All was still as death, save for the strange thunder of the 
calm sea, which came upon the sense like a low reverberation 
within the ears and deepened the stillness with its mysterious 
and ominous chime. 

As one wakens in the dead of night, suddenly conscious of 
some superaatural visitation, and waits shiveringly for some- 
thing that is about to happen, while the pulses shut sharp upon 
the beating heart, and the clammy sweat-drops hang upon the 
pallid brow— so did I \vaken and listen. A curious terror pos- 
sessed me, I knew not wherefore, a sickening sense of dreadful 
anticipation. 

Leaving the cave, I crept out among the chill and sheeted 
mists. Suddenly, as I walked, I started in wonder; for I saw 
quite close to me. poised over the snow-clad island, a dull red 
ball like an eye watching me: and so near did it seem, that it 
seemed partly resting on the crags close at hand. This ball 
was no other than the round disk of the sun itself, made start- 


GOD AND THE MAN. 


195 


ling and phenomenal by some curious effect of the intervening 
fog; yet even when I knew its nearness to be only a delusion of 
the sense, the appearance troubled me, and I shrank like one 
who sees a supernatural vision. 

I was now perplexed beyond measure to account for Richard 
Orchardson’s disappearance. For days past he had scarcely left 
the cave, and even when he ventured forth, he had remained 
close at hand, walking feebly, or sitting in a dream. So it 
seemed strange that he should have left his couch so early, and 
in weather so dangerous, since the heights were full of dangerous 
cavities and precipices, and one false step might take him to Ins 
death. Nor could I conceive what errand could have taken him 
forth. 

I searched this way and that, but found no trace of him: and 
at last, casting off all my shame in my new wonder, I shouted 
aloud. There came strange ghostly echoes out of the fog and 
murmurs from the distant sea, but no reply of any human voice. 

Then, half alarmed, half wroth with myself for heeding what 
might become of him, I returned to the cave and broke my fast; 
then busied myself in putting my fire in order, whistling for the 
sake of forgetfulness, and trying not to think at all. An hour 
passed thus; and presently looking forth, I saw that the fog had 
cleared a little, and that the heights were not so dark. 

Then, reasoning with myself, I reproached myself for the un' 
easiness which possessed me, reminding my soul of its right- 
eous hate, and the broad liver of blackness between my life and 
his. If he was dead, why, it was well; his punishment had 
come. 

But this mood did not last long. As the day advanced, I grew 
more uneasy, and by and by forth I went again, picking my way 
carefully from place to place, from mist to mist. More than 
once I lost my way, and came near to death on the edges of the 
slippery crags, on the brink of which the sun still rolled, like a 
thin and rayless ball. At last I found him. 

1 had turned my face from the cliffs and was ascending the 
stony hillside, when I stumbled against a body stretched 
prone on the ground, and looking down in terror, I saw him 
stretched upon his face, ragged, half naked, and to all appear- 
ance, dead. 

Why he had come there I know not till this hour; but he 
must have wandered thither, awake or asleep, and stumbling 
over the rocky ground, fainted where he fell. 

Then I thought, “ He is dead at last,” and straightway a great 
awe fell upon me, so that I could scarce breathe or move; and 
the thought of all my hardness came back upon me, and I hated 
myself more bitterly than ever I had hated him. 

Recovering from this first terror, and forgetting all my threats 
and all my vows, I knelt down by his side and turned his face 
upward; \vhen greater awe fell upon me, for the eyes were fixed 
and glazed, and the features white as marble, with one stain of 
red blood upon the lips. 

I see him now as I saw him then; so white and worn and thin, 
ills cheeks deep sunken, his hair, which had grown long andun- 


196 


GOD AND THE HAN. 

kempt since bis sojourn upon the island, flowinj? p:ray upon bis 
shoulders; bis mouth wide open, hiseyes staring, his throat thin 
and shrunken like an old man’s. Like an old man indeed 
he seemed, worn out with years; he who was once so young and 
bright! 

As a murderer looks on the man that he hath slain, T looked 
upon him, while a voice cried in mine ear that by a little more 
charity, a little more tenderness, a few kind words, I might 
have saved him. And there he lay! all the light and health 
gone that make a living man, leaving only instead silence and a 
face of stone. 

And yet, even then, with swift thoughts I justified myself. I 
had helped him beyond his deserving, I had spared and sheltered 
him; all I had denied to him was kindness and gentle words. 
What was he to me that I should pity him — I who owed him 
such a life-long grudge of hate ? 

I bent down my head, and listened for his breath; no breath 
came. Then I opened his garment and put my hand upon his 
heart; but I could feel no beat. As I touched him so a shiver 
ran through my frame, and my head went round. 

Then I took his hands in mine and chafed them, for they were 
cold as stone. As I did so, methought I felt him stir. 

I felt for bis heart again, and for the first time I seemed to de- 
tect a faint warmth, a tremulous beat, feeble as the flutter of 
the tiniest leaf. 

Then a thought came to me, and I ran swiftly away in the di- 
rection of the cave; for the air was clearer now, and I could 
just see my way. Leaping down, I found the keg of raw spirit, 
which was as yet half full, and by its side my cup of hollow 
stone; this I quickly filled, and then, creeping forth carefully, 
not to spill the spirit on the ground, hastened back to the man’s 
side. 

I found him lying as I had left him, face upward. 

Bending by him, I took his head upon my knee, and dipping 
in the spirit with my finger, gently wet his lips; and presently, 
to my surprise and joy, he stirred feebly, while a faint sound 
came from his mouth. 

Then I knew that if he remained there he would be frozen — 
the ground being covered with snow, and the air being so bitter 
cold; and when I saw at last that he might live, I took him up 
gently in my two arms (alas! he was so thin and light that 1 felt 
his weight no more than that of a little sickly child), and carried 
him toward my cave. 

As I went, he moaned, and I felt his body tremble against 
me, which made me hasten the more quickly, not looking down 
into his face, lest he should open his eyes and behold me. The 
air was so dim and fog -enwrapped, and the snow so deep under 
foot, that my passage was slow; but at last I reached the cave, 
set him down at its mouth, and entering first, drew him 
softly in. 

By this time he was breathing heavily, with full signs of life, 
though his sight seemed still glazed and dark, and his face set 
in pain. 


GOD AND THE MAN 


197 


I laid him down full length upon mine own bed of blankets 
and skins, and pillowed up his head, with his feet to the fire; 
tlien I felt his hands, and finding them still very cold, rubbed 
them gently with mine own. 

All these things I did like one in a dream, not rightly com- 
prehending wliat I did; my dread now being that the man 
might die, leaving me alone with God in that desolate place. 



CHAPTER XXXIX. 

THE SICK MAN’S DREAMS. 


Before night came, the superficial chill of hands and body 
passed away, and the fiery flush of fever, which had been burn- 
ing all the while within, broke out upon his face; and the film, 
fading from his eyes, was succeeded by a gaze of strange wild- 
ness, with neither true consciousness nor recognition. 

Then I saw him struggling for his breath, moaning inarticu- 
lately, tossing from side to side, in the dire extremity of a mortal 
sickness. 

It was well, I think, that he was more or less unconscious, 
for metbinks I could not have borne, at first, his knowledge of 
my tenderness; but finding him thus helpless, and as it were 
sightless, I continued to minister to him, using all my poor care 
and skill. 

I fetched cold water in my cup, and set it ready by his side to 
cool his lips, and now and then when he seemed very faint, I 
moistened his lips with water and spirits mixed together. 

Then, having no kerchief, I took the neckcloth from ray 
throat, and tearing it into several pieces, moistened one piece, 
and laid it upon his brow for coolness, changing it from time 
to time. 

Presently, fearing that he might sink from lack of food, I 
crumbled a biscuit in water, and when I had softened it to a sop, 
put some to Ins mouth; but he would not swallow, and spat the 
fragments forth. 

Then, having closed the mouth of the cave, and fixed two of 
my lights against the wall, I took my coat of skins and threw it 
over him, because a sharp shivering seized him from time to 
time. 

This done I could do no more, but sat in the shadow, and 
watched as a nurse watches her sick charge. 

That night I slept not, but remained ever ready to minister to 
his wants when he started and criedf 

See, now, how strangely God had dealt with me! My great 
fear now was lest this man should perish, and leave me without 
a living soul, without one sign of humanity, in that place. With 
him for a neighbor, though without anv sweetness of com- 
panionship, I had been able to bear my desolation. 

But all niglit long I thought with wild terror on what would 
be my lot if he sliould die, and I be left utterly alone. The 
cruel sky, the lonely sea, the changeless ice and snow, would 
then become too terrible to bear. 

I have often in my rude way wondered how mortals would 


198 


GOD AND THE MAN. 


fare if death were no common burden (as it is, through God’s 
blessing), but only the lot of a certain portion of men that live; 
if, T would saj, not all creatures, but only some, were fated to 
die like the beasts. Out of this inequality of evil, what bitter- 
ness would come, what revilings and cursings of an ungenerous 
Providence! But since all must die alike, we are resigned. 
What all must bear, many can bear right cheerfully, knowing 
the hour of each must surely come. 

By the same token suffering becomes easier when it is shared 
by any other living soul; nay, I can well believe that even a 
poor dumb hound, patiently enduring some pang with its 
master, may, by speechless community of sorrow, lighten that 
master’s load. And I, with even my mortal enemy for com- 
pany, had been saved from utter extremity of w’eariness; for 
while he, too, felt the pinch of cold, the pang of hunger, and 
the shadow of a common loneliness, I could not hold myself 
quite solitary in suffering or in despair. 

As I sat and watched that night by the sick man, I thought 
much of Priscilla, much of that sweet couos^d which she had 
been wmnt to give me in the days when we w^ere loving friends; 
and methought, from time to time, that I faw her very presence 
before me, as the shining of an angel in white robes. Tears rose 
in mine eyes as I reflected how cruelly, yet how strangely, God 
had dealt with me, and how perchance’ I should never behold 
that gentle maid again. 

Then, looking at Richard Orchardson, so white and wan, so 
wmrn with the suffering I had brought him, I said to myself: 
“ He too loved her, and he too hath lost her;” and straight- 
way the very memory of our common love softened me to 
him the more, and awoke in my heart an inconceivable ten- 
derness and pity. Yes, it was surely a new bond between us, 
in the sad surcease of hate, that we had both lifted eyes of 
yearning to that gentle maiden, who with all holy arts had 
sought to bring us together. 

We had both lost her; both lost the world. We were alone 
with God, What remained but to wait patiently, to taste the 
cup of pain in common, and then to die ? 

- With thoughts like these, so new, so pitiful, I watched him 
through the night. 

The next day he remained in the same condition. Toward 
night-time he began to rave. 

I saw that the fever, or whatever disease it was that possessed 
him, was at its height; for his face grew crimson, his eyes 
filmy and moist, w’hile blood and foam began oozing from 
liis mouth. Then I noticed that his breath w’as foul, as w’ith 
scurvy; that the skin upon his hands was scaly, and loosened 
at a touch; and that there were foul sores bursting upon his 
neck. 

So I moistened pieces of cloth in water and laid them upon 
the sores, and with fresh water I rinsed his lips and gums; 
doing for the sick man, moreover, other ofiices that may be 
nameless here. 

Presently, seeing his head greatly oppressed by its long thick 


GOD AND THE MAN, 


199 


locks, and remembering how they do in hospitals with folk in 
fever, I took my sailor’s knife, and cut off a large portion of his 
hair, as close as might be to the head; after which be seemed 
easier, and rested better upon his pillow. 

But all this time I tried in vain to get him to swallow a few 
moist crumbs of food; he would take nothing save a little weak 
spirits and water, which I forced him to swallow now and 
again; so that every hoar lie grew manifestly weaker, till his 
poor remains of strength were well-nigh spent. 

Meantime, he did not cease to rave; and listening to him I dis- 
tinguished many a well-known name, and oftentimes mine own; 
but the name that was uppermost upon his lips was, as before, 
that of Priscilla. Sometimes his thoughts were among the 
green fens of England, at others they were sailing on the great 
sea; but Priscilla seemed ever with them, wheresoever they 
went. 

I pitied him none the less when he prattled of Priscilla, for I 
knew he had no hope of her this side of death’s darkness; but 
when he murmured another name dear to me, the shadow of my 
old hate came back. 

“Kate! Kate!” he whispered suddenly, as I moistened his 
brow with the wet rag; and I shrank back as if I had been 
stung. 

Then suddenly opening his eyes and gazing vacantly upon me, 
he moaned again: 

“Kate! Kate Christianson!” 

1 left his side and withdrew to the further side of the cave; 
there I sat sullenly brooding over the memory his words had 
awakened, and for a long space I neither looked at him nor of- 
fered him any aid. 

Presently he called for water, and at first I hesitated, cursing 
him in my heart; but my conscience stinging me, I arose and 
gave him a draught, which he drank with feverish eagerness, as 
if he were all afire within. 


CHAPTER XL. 

“OUR FATHER,” 

It was on the evening of the third day, while I sat watching 
him as he lay in a heavy sleep, that he suddenly opened his eyes 
and looked at me; and I saw to my surprise that the vacant film 
had left his gaze, and that there came into the face a quiet light 
of recognition. , . , , _ 

“ Is it thou, Christian Christianson ?” he said, so faintly that I 
could scarcely hear. 

I could not answer, for a great lump rose in my throat, but 
lialf-averting my face I inclined my head. 

I knew that his eyes were still watching me, and presently I 
heard him say: , , . , 

“ What hath happened ? W"hy am I lying here ?” 

T answered him, in a low voice: 

“ I found you lying in the snow, and I carried you back into 
the cave.” 


200 


GOD AND THE MAN, 


A sliai'p moan came from hia lips. 

“ Then it is all true, and we are not saved, as I was dream^ 
ing. Methought we w’ere on shipboard, sailing back to Eng- 
land.” 

There was a long silence. I turned my face and gazed at him; 
he was lying with his eyes closed, feebly breathing, but while I 
looked at him he opened his eyes and spoke again. 

“ After all, it doth not matter, since I am so nearly spent.” 

I could not answer him at first, but taking the hot rag 
from his forehead, I moistened it with fresh water, and re- 
turned it to its place. As I did so he looked up, and our eyes 
met. 

“ Thank you,” he said; adding softly: “ I shall not trouble you 
long.” 

And the thin furrow's of his cheeks grew moist with tears. 

A little wdiile after this he rambled again, but not so wildly, 
and now his fancy seemed in sunny places; so that wdien he 
came to himself his look was more peaceful. 

I w’ent to his side, and tried, dumbly, to make him eat a 
portion of the soup I had prepared; but he pushed it gently 
away. 

“ Eat,” T said, “ or you wull die!” 

He gazed at me w’ith a strange, long, searching look. 

“lam a dead man,” he .answered wearily. “Nothing can 
save me.” 

Then sinking his head back upon his pillow, he continued: 

“ Save for your care, I should ne’er have lived so long. Why 
do you keep me alive ? Is it because you love to see me suffer 
pain ?” 

The question went through my heart like a knife, but how 
could I reply? He little knew the pity stirring in my heart’s 
core. 

“If you have any mercy,” he said presently, “promise to 
give me Christian burial. Do not leave my poor body to the 
ravenous beasts?” 

I remembered how he had craved this promise before, and 
how I bad not answered. I answered now, eager to give him 
comfort. 

“ If I survive 5'ou, I will do as you wish.” 

“ Will you swear it?” he said. 

“ I swear it,” I replied. 

He closed his eyes as if relieved, and presently began to sleep 
again. After a little time he lay so silent that I could not hear 
him breathe, and I thought with a cold shudder that he might 
be dead, but bending over him, I perceived that he was still 
alive, though his breathing made no sound. 

Yet indeed, as he lay stretched there, he seemed as one fallen 
into bis last sleep; and the sacredness of death seemed upon 
him, on his w^orn, sad face, his forehead penciled with blue 
veins, his closed eyelids, his lips just flecked with foam. One 
thin hand lay beneath his cheek, the other hung like wax upon 
the sealskin coverlet, and over him brooded a solemn silence, 
like the silence of the cold grave. 


GOD AND THE MAN. 201 

I lifted his band, and it was icy cold. I touched him on the 
shoulder, and spoke to him, but h(5 did not hear. 

Then, fearing that his time was come, and that he would 
never speak again, I grew more than ever terrified; and at last 
in the fullness of my fear and self-pity, I sank upon my knees 
by his side. Holding his cold hand, I prayed aloud to God that 
he might live; that I should not be left wholly desolate and 
forlorn. 

“Spare him, O Godl” I prayed. “Of all living things he is 
the sole creature that remains to me, and if he goeth, where 
shall I look for the light of a human face, the touch of a human 
hand ? He has shared my shelter, eaten my substance, and his 
sorrow has been harder to bear than mine. Spare him, O Godl 
Leave me not utterly alone.” 

Now, even as I prayed, his strength revived again, like the 
rising of a weak ocean- wave; and as I knelt with head bowed. 
I heard the faint sound of his voice — “Christian Christianson!” 

I started and looked up wildly at the sound of my name. His 
chill hand fluttered like a leaf in mine, as he murmured: 

“ I have your promise ?” 

1 pressed his hand for answer, for I could not speak. 

“ And you will bear the news to iny dear father? Tell him 1 
died blessing him, and remembering how much he loved me. 
Tell him, moreover, that I died in the hope of the blessed res- 
urrection through Jesus Christ our Lord.” 

As he spake, he drew his hand softly from mine, and putting 
both hands feebly together on his breast, murmured the first 
words of the Lord’s Prayer: 

“ Our Father, which art in heaven. Hallowed be Thy name. 
Thy kingdom come.” 

Then he paused suddenly, for, still keeping on my knees, I was 
sobbing audibly, choked and stifled with tears which would not 
flow. 

He reached out his hand, and touched me. 

“ Shake hands,” he said. 

I took his hand in both of mine, and touched it with my trem- 
bling lips. 

“ Pray for me again,” he whispered. “ Pray for me, and I 
shall know that we part in peace.” 

God help me, I knew no prayer but that which he had 
just begun; but this I well remembered, having been taught 
by my mother to say it night and morn; so straightway, I 
said “ Our Father,” in as clear voice as I could command, 
and gazing reverently upward: and as I prayed my force was 
broken, and my warm tears flowed as from the living rock, 
bedewing the hand I clasped within mine own. I had no 
shame flow; it had left me forever, with my bitter hate; and as 
I knelt there, it seemed as if the heavens were opened above 
me, and I could hear the singing of angels from some heavenly 
clime. 

When the prayer was ended, and I still knelt weeping, ho 
turned his face to me and said; 


202 


GOD AND THE 3IAN 


“ Before I die there is yet another thing upon my mind that I 
must speak.’’ 

“ Speak, then,” I whispered. 

He turned his eyes full on mine, like one sadly seeking for- 
giveness. 

“ ’Twas I that fired the ship.” 

CHAPTER XLI. 

THE LAST LOOK. 

Now, although I had known this thing from the first, having 
never in mine own mind doubted that h^is hand had done that 
deed of darkness, though he had so constantly denied it, I 
shrunk from him in horror, and would have dropped his hand. 

But his cold fingers held me, while his wild eyes read my 
face. 

“ God help me, T knew not what I did, for I was mad! I saw 
her heart was yours, and I thought to stifle you where you were 
chained. But God has punished me, as you see.” 

1 was silent, with a cold chill and shrinking upon me; and 
presently he moaned, still clutching my fingers in his: 

“ Have you nothing to say to me ? Can you forgive me 
now ?” 

Then the cloud of my old hate passed from me forever, as I 
replied : 

“ May God forgive us both! He hath dealt with us as we de- 
served.” 

Though all that time the shadow of death was in the cave, 
Richard Orchardson lived through that long night, and far into 
the morrow morn. 

Now that the fatal barrier of pride was cast down from be- 
tween us, now that our eyes could meet in the sorrow of that 
last farewell, my heart seemed strangely lightened of its load; 
and though 1 still looked forward with an overmastering dread 
to the moment when I must be left alone, I could pray now as 
never in my lifetime I had prayed before. 

^ Sitting by the side of my dying companion, in the long inter- 
vals of piteous speech and more piteous silence, my thoughts 
again, like homeward, wavering birds, went back across the 
years; and as I called to mind the bitter ancestral feud, the 
bloody lifelong strife, there came back to me my poor father’s 
dying words of gentleness and forgiveness. He, poor man, had 
suffered more than I, and yet he had been patient and gentle 
to the last. 

Then I thought, “ We are nurtured in evil and bitter blame; 
we sit and feed our sense of wrong apart, when with a gentle 
word we might make all well; and knowing not our brother’s 
heart, we think it cruel and abominable, at the very 'moment 
w’heii the dews of mercy and human kindness are making it 
sweet.” For I remembered the time just after my father’s 
death, when Squire Orchardson had ridden over to our house 
door on a peaceful errand; and our hearts had shut against him, 
thougli he surely meant us well. How much evil had been 


GOD AND THE MAN, 


03 


spared us all had my mother listened that clay! But afterward, 
through evil blood between two mere children, who knew not 
what they did, what calamity had come! 

As I sat thus musing, and looking at Richard Orchardson, the 
cave faded away, the years rolled back, and I was standing on 
the Fen Farm with clinched hands, looking at a pale boy 
stretched bleeding at my feet; while in mine ears rang the cry of 
little Kate, “Oh Christian, what have you done?” And little 
Kate, where was she? Dead, perchance; or still, a weary 
\yoman, wandering about the world. After all, she had lovell 
this man, and had she not out of fear of us kept her love a 
secret, happiness might have come to her even through him. I 
had closed my hard heart sternly against her pleading, and had 
driven her forth cruelly, when she miglit have been saved, per- 
chance, by one gentle word: 

And so the end had come; and the end was the same as the 
beginning, yet how different! 

There lay Richard Orchardson, helpless, gray, and old before 
his time; and I was still the stronger, as 1 had been in that 
struggle when we were boys. There lay he whose being I had 
imbittered, and who had imbittered mine; whose death I had 
prayed for; whose life I had sought to take with murderous 
hands. We had struck each other with all our might, and he — 
he had fallen; yet now I would have give away the world if I 
could have raised him up, saying, “ Live, and be forgiven;” if I 
could have seen him again walking erect and happy in the sun; 
nay, if I could have kept him with me a little w’hile, to lighten 
my desolate despair. 

It was not to be. 

God was to fill my cup full measure, even to the very run- 
ning o’er. I had prayed for this man’s life; it was to be given 
me. Alas! when God answers our passionate pleading, even 
to the fruition of our wickedest desire. He is inexorable to the 
end. 

He had been restless all the night, but toward the morning he 
slept soundly, almost peacefully; but about the middle of the 
day he woke and (to my amazement) asked for food. 

. I looked at him in wmnder. Ho had sat up on his couch, with 
a strange flush upon his face, and smiled. 

“I am hungry,” he said. “Prithee let me eat.” 

Alas! I knew’ not what to give him, I had only the seal’s 
flesh (which w’as too rank for the stOTiiach of a sick man), some 
loose flour, and coarse biscuit. But I brought him a little 
spirit and water, while I soaked some biscuit, as I had done be- 
fore; and my hand shook for joy, since I saw him so brightly 
changed. 

He ate some of the sop eagerly, and with an evident relish. 

“ You are better to-day,” 1 said, gently. 

“Yes, much better,” he replied, smiling still. “Nay, I feel 
quite strong.” 

Had God answrered my prayer? Had the disease departed 
and would the companion of my loneliness be spared to me after 
all? Alas! I had little skill in nursing or in leech-craft; or I 


204 


GOD AND THE MAN. 


would have known, as I know now, how dying men often rally 
a little space, while the last gleam of life shoots up shiningly, 
like to the last flash upon the blackening brand. 

When he had eaten he lay back upon his pillow and closed 
his eyes, and in a moment was sound asleep; but this time 
his sleep was troubled and he tossed feverishly from side to 
side. 

An hour later he awoke suddenly, and sprung up in bed. 

“Look!” he cried, pointing eagerly; then, he added in a loud 
voice, “ Motlier! mother!” 

I kept by his side, and took his head upon my shoulder, but 
he still kept his eyes wide open as if he gazed upon a vision. 

“Mother, who is that by your side? Is it Priscilla? Why 
are you crying? Nay, tell my father to be comforted, for I am 
coming home. Hark, what is that? Do you hear, sweetheart? 
’Tis our wedding- bells!” 

Alas! those bells were ringing not on earth, but far away in 
heaven. Even as he spake a strange shiver ran through his 
frame, the coldness of death stole from his heart to mine, and 
with one last moan, his spirit passed away. 

* •» * # * * * 

At first I could not believe that he was dead. 

I placed his head gently back upon his pillow and gazed upon 
him; and there was no change. He seemed just resting wearily, 
as he had rested so many days. 

But even as I looked upon his poor wasted face, and listened 
for his living breath, there stole upon my soul that sacredness 
and mysterious stillness which never come till the shadow of 
Death is present; and over the form I watched fell the chilly 
consecration of the dust. It was as if some pale Angel stood 
there stooping darkly, touching brow and cheeks and hands in 
turn with a frosty finger, till they changed into the whiteness 
of the lily, then into the chillness of icy stone; till of the thing 
that was a living creatur<i a few minutes before, only a marble 
mask remained. 

There lay Richard Orchardson, or what had once been he; his 
feeble frame, his wasted flesh, his haggard face, all changed — 
no longer old nor young, but beautiful even to terror; covered 
with peace as with a garment, clothed with the loveliness of 
Death. For Death crowns all alike. There is no creature so 
frail, so wretched — nay, there is not even a little child — to whom 
he denies this royalty of the last repose. We enter the last 
sleeping-place of a dead beggar, and his rags have become regal, 
and we stand before him in reverence, like subjects in the pres- 
ence of a king. 


CB AFTER XLII. 

‘ ‘SNOW TO SNOW 1*’ 

When I knew that he was dead indeed, I bent over him rever- 
ently, placed his arms down by his side, and seeing his eyes 
wide open drew down th« waxen lids over the sightless orbs. 
Then I held a little water in the palm of my hand and cleansetl 


GOD AND THE MAN, 205 

the dead face; afterward with careful fingers arranging his hair 
and beard. 

Lastly 1 took one of my rude lights, and set it at the corpse's 
head like the death-lights we burn round dead folk in the Fens. 

All this 1 did mechanically, not yet feeling the full horror of 
my desolation; but when there was no more to do, when I had 
ordered all in Christian cleanliness and reverence, I sat and 
gazed upon mine enemy, as if mine own hour had also come. 

What followed seems now, as it was then, like a dream with- 
in a dream. 

After the first stony sense of loss, during which I remained 
strangely stern and cold, I think, I must have begun to wander 
in my mind; for I have a dim memory of sitting there in the 
cave, with the dead man before me, and talking wildly to my- 
self; then of passing forth, and wandering up and down the 
island, through the drifted snow, like a witless man; of creep- 
ing back, and peering in, as into a tomb, and seeing him still 
there, with the corpse-lights at his head; so that I was afraid to 
enter, till the bitter cold drove me in. 

But God was merciful, and even in those dark hours of lone- 
liness and fear He kept me from going wholly mad. Though 
my mind wandered for a time, my reason was not quite shat- 
tered; amid the darkness of my despair, when all the winds of 
terror rushed upon me, that light within which makes a living 
soul, though it trembled in the blast, was not blown out for- 
ever. 

And methinks one thing helped me; and this was the promise 
I had made the man before he died. 

I had sworn that he should have Christian burial, and that 
oath I now determined to fulfill. 

I kept him wuth me in the cave for several nights and days, 
until tlie change in him became so dreadful that I shuddered to 
look upon his face. 

Then, knowing that the time had come, I chose a place not 
far off, where there was a hollow in the rocky ground, filled up 
with snow; and here, out of the hard drift, I scooped a shallow 
grave. 

To bury him in that hard ground was impossible; yet I did 
the best for his poor dust that ray wild thoughts could devise. 

I had no coffin for him and no shroud. He lay in the gar- 
ments that he had died in, completely clad; but instead of cere- 
ments, I wrapped the sealskin coverlet around him, leaving 
only his face bare. 

Then, One still morn, when the air was bright for the place 
and time of year, I lifted him in my arms and carried him 
slowly forth, across the snow. 

I had the rude grave all ready, and now I laid him down within 
it, with his white face to the sky. As 1 stood above him and 
took my last look of him, more snow began to fall. 

Lightly, thinly, delicately fell the soft flakes on the cold body 
and on the white, cold, marble face. It seemed as if the Lord 
Himself were stretching out His band, and gently covering up 
the dead I 


206 


GOD A^'D THE MAN. 


Then, standing bareheaded, eager still to keep my pledge, to 
him, I repeated, as far as I could remember, the words of the 
old sweet Burial Service out of our English Book of Prayer, and 
when I could remember no more I stretched out my arms in 
blessing, commending my enemy’s soul to God. 

Before I had ended, his face had faded away in the falling 
whiteness; and seeing it vanish utterly, I sobbed like a little 
child. 

Forasmuch as it hath pleased Almighty God of His great 
mercy to take unto Himself the soul of my dear brother here* 
departed, T therefore commit his body to the ground, earth to 
earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust; in sure and certain hope of 
the resurrection to eternal life, through Jesus Christ our Lord.” 

Nay, not ashes to ashes, or dust to dust, but snow to snow! 

As the sexton of the graveyard draws down the loosened 
mold, pressing it firm upon the coffin lid, so did I with the drift 
till it lay thick and firm above him as any earth; and over and 
above all I wmrked the snow into a barrow of the dead, not 
green, but white; and when all was done as I had promised, 

I turned away. 

And now for the first time I felt the full extremity of my deso- 
lation. 

For when I entered the cave, there ^vas no face, not even that 
of my poor dead enemy, to meet me; and the place was forlorn 
beyond measmre. Even in the dead body there had been com- 
panionship, so long as it remained. 

I sat down in my empty dwelling and wept. 

But presently, filled with a new thought of blessed tenderness, 

I took two pieces of wood, and tied them together in the shape 
of across; and all that afternoon I wrought upon the cross with 
my clasp-knife, till I had rudely carved upon it these words: 

“ Here lietu Richard Orcuardson. 

31ay he rise again.’’ ^ 

Night had fallen wffien my task was done. But passing forth, 

I found the new-made grave and set the cross upon it, as my 
last token of forgiveness and good-will. 

As I stood gazing down, the crimson flame of the aurora arose 
suddenly out of the nortliern sky, and all the heavens were 
miraculously illumined. Was it my sad fancy only that theglorv 
of that vision had never been so strangely blight"? Higher and 
higher toward the zenith rose the prismatic cupola of splendor, 
fairer and infinitely brighter than any rainbow of promise, with 
flames of inconceivable brightness and a glory as of summer 
dawm lighting heaven and eartli and sea! 

At last the wonder faded; deep darkness followed; and I was 
alone iu all the world. 


CHAPTER XLIII. 

FROM THE LOG OF THE WHALER NAUTILUS. 

In the late hairst of 17—, I, Captain John Macintosh, com- 
manding the Nautilus brig, of one hundred and fifty tons, and 
one of the wdialing- fleet from Dundee, sprung a leak during aa 


GOL AND THE MAN. 


;^o: 

easterl}' gale xvliile on my way southward, was driven far away 
to the west, and putting into Clarence Harbor, ten leagues to the 
west of Cape Chidney, for lepairs, was there beleaguered by the 
ice, and compelled to pass the winter months in that uncanny 
clime. 

Fortunately, we were well prepared for such an emergency, 
and being sheltered in a safe creek, we roofed the ship with 
canvas against the snow; and so, with land on ever}' side of us, 
plenty of moss fuel ashore, a good stock of provisions, and fire- 
arms for hunting, we tholed our trouble, and passed the snell 
season without the loss of a single soul aboard. 

Of our troubles and privations, our sports on ice and land, and 
our many grand devices to pass away the eerie time, I have told 
at large in my log, which I Jrept carefully from Sabbath to Sab- 
bath, scarce missing a single day; for when I was a-bed one 
week with a touch of scurvy, my mate Robert Johnstone, a 
good scholar, and like myself a native of Buckly vie, Fife, set all 
things fairly down. 

At last, the winter broke, the sun rose up into the lift, and to 
our great joy we saw the ice splitting and loosening, with 
gleams like fire-flaught, and shocks like thunder, reverberating 
far out to sea. Having first cannily overhauled our ship's bot- 
tom, which our carpenters reached easily, as she was lifted 
clean out of the water by the ice, and having made all snug and 
taut aboard, we prepared to get her afloat; a task we achieved 
with no little difficulty, havhig to cut a pathway for her with 
our hatchets for a distance of nearly two Scots miles, before we 
could reach the open water of Clgrence Harbor. 

When this was done, and the Nautilus was once more afloat 
in the deep sea, we shouted like daft men, and prepared at once 
to set sail. The lift was growing clearer and clearer every hour, 
and though there was a thick damp reek, caused by the 
evaporation from the surface of the ice, floating about the sea, 
we determined to linger no longer, so eager were we to reach 
bonny Scotland again, and to see those that loved us — parents, 
sweethearts, wives, or bairns. 

Out of the middle of Clarence Harbor ran a channel of salt 
sea, two miles wide, and shut in on each side by impenetrable 
ice; this channel, though deep, was discolored like a great river 
with melting snow, and sprinkled everywhere by small pieces 
of broken ice, which floated along like flotsam and jetsam on a 
river in full spate, There was only just enough wind to steer 
by, but we drifted along fast enough with the ice rattling 
against the old ship’s timbers like fragments of broken glass, 
and the water the color of oatmeal porridge on every side. 

As we went the channel widened, until we had plenty of sail- 
ing room, but finding no lead out to the open sea, on account of 
the solid floes that closed us in to larboard, we drifted past Cape 
.Chidle} in a south-westerly direction, with the drift of the main 
^haw, or current. ' 

; Before long, we had our work cut out for us, for before a day 
had passed we got among drift-ice, freshly loosened from the 
jsolid ^oes. Mar^ a sharp raj) did the old ship get as she snooved 


808 


GOD AND THE MAN. 


along with the great blue bergs towering on every side of her, 
and land fogs making the daytime as mirk as midnight. 

Four days and nights we played at tliis game among the 
bergs, but at last we reached open water — a clear calm lead to 
the southward with never a blink of ice in sight. 

On the evening of the fifth day there blew such a spring gale 
from the north-east as I never wish to see again: as Bob John- 
stone said, it was the De’il of the Pole giving us his last cuff on 
the lugs before he let us go for good; and with the gale came 
snow, and sleet, and hail blinding and smothering the ship. 

We lay to, under a rag of canvas all that night. 

At break of day the wind changed, and just in time; for hard 
under our lee lay the loom of black land, set round with ice as 
sharp and ugly as shark’s teeth, the edge of which was scarce a 
mile away. 

But the breeze changing into a mild puff from the west, with 
just a gentle pussie-claw on the deep green water, we prepared 
to set all sail; when suddenly some of the men, who stood look- 
ing over the side toward the land, uttered a cry, and began to 
bletln'r among themselves. 

‘‘ What’s the matter, lads?” I said, going up to them. 

Then old Koll Sanderson, our chief harpooner, and a Shet- 
land man, replied: 

“ They’re saying they see sometiiing oot youner on the ice.” 

“ What is it, lads?” I asked. 

“ Saints preserve us a’! ’ said a young hand from Leith. “ It 
leuks like a inoiiE 

A man on the ice in that desolate region! T smiled to myself 
at the notion; but when they cried again, I w’ent to the side and 
looked, and sure enough I saw, far away, a black shape run- 
ning on the ocean's edge. 

“ Give me the glass!” I cried, and Rob Johnstone, who had 
the telescope under his oxter, handed it to me. 

No longer had I clapped it to my eye than I started, and felt 
a thread go through my heart. The figure was a man’s no 
doubt, and he was waving his arms in the air, and making signs 
to us aboard the ship. 

“ Lower a boat!” I said. “ It's a living creature, though Lord 
kens what brought him there." 

When the boat was lowered and manned, I stepped into the 
stern, and leaving Johnstone in command on board, took the 
tiller. The lads were as curious and eager as myself, and they 
rowed with a will; and soon I could see plainly with my own 
een, without the aid of a glass, a great lean figure like a wraith, 
stretching out his arms to us, and dancing about like a daft 
body on the edge of the ice! 

But Lord! such a sight as the poor soul presented I never saw 
before, and hope never to see again! He was wrapped all round 
with dirty skins, and on his legs were a pair of broken seaman's 
boots, his frame was like a skeleton’s, his hair hung down to 
his shoulders and over his forehead, while his beard was a foot 
Jong, and matted like tow. But the face of him, the look of 


OOD AND THE MAN. 209 

him! He looked like Death himself, with sunken cheeks and 
hollow een, and his jaw hanging like the jaw of an idiot man. 

When he saw us coming near, he fell upon his knees as if 
pra5dng; and kneeling so, waited till the boat touched the ice. 

Then, while the men looked in wonder, I sprung out and ap- 
proached him. At that, he sprung to his feet, and though I arn 
myself a tall man, six feet in my boots, he was taller. 

When I questioned him he did not seem to understand. His 
eyes looked vacantly, and he murmured something to himself, 
but seemed to have lost the use of speech. 

Then he began to wave his arms again, laughing and greeting 
in the same breath, so that I thought to myself that some great 
trouble had made him daft indeed. 

I pointed to the boat, and made signs for him to go aboard the 
ship. He understood that right well. I’m thinking, but instead 
of leaping into the boat, he began running toward the land, 
making signs for us to follow. 

While I stood perplexed, he pointed up to the cliffs, which lay 
about a mile away across the ice, and I saw by his beckoning 
that he wished us to follow him up yonder. 

At first I hesitated, till it flashed across my mind that maybe 
he was not alone, and that there were others not far away, cast 
away like himself, and in some dire trouble. So I took with me 
two of the men, namely, William Forsyth and Wattie Hether* 
ington, and leaving the other two in the boat, followed him 
across the ice. 

Though he was so worn and thin, and looked like a wraith, 
he ran so swiftly that it took us all our breath to follow; and 
whenever we paused, he stopped and beckoned again. 

At last we reached the laud — a black line of rugged cliffs, 
whitened with great patches of ice and snow, and with clear 
falling streams of melting thaw glittering in the sun. Passing 
along the shore, the strange man at last came. to a rocky ascent, 
up which he swiftly ran; and we following, came out upon the 
braes of a snowy island, as bare of all vegetation as the palm of 
my hand. 

At last he paused, looking down. 

Then, coming up and standing by his side, we beheld to our 
amaze a mound of hard snow shapen like a grave, and on this 
mound a rude wooden cross, on which was carven tliese words 
that follow: 

“Here lieth IlicnAKD Orchardson. 

May he rise again.'’ ^ 

Even as we gazed, the man knelt upon the snow as if praying 
dumbly to himself; then rising quietly; looked down again upon 
the grave, and wept. I put my hand upon his shoulder. 

“ Answer me now,” I said. “ Are there any more folk on the 
island ?” 

He understood me, and now for the first time answered, in 
the English tongue. 

“ No more; no more!” he cried, in a hollow voice. 

Then I asked him if he wished to sail away with us.from that 
dreary place. 


210 GOD AND THE MAN. 

“Take me away,” he answered in the same strange tone; 
“ take me away!” 

I wondered in my own mind why he had brought us up here 
only to stand by a dead man’s grave, and I wonder still — for I 
know not to this hour what spirit moved hioi. 

He stood looking at the cross like one in a dream. 

“Come, my man,” I said, touching him again. 

He started, and followed us quietly. So we went down again 
to the shore, and crossing the ice, entereil the boat. I placed 
him beside me in the stern. He did not speak, but sat like one 
bewildei-ed, with Ids face ever turned backward to the laud we 
had left behind. Three weeks after that the Nautilus, with the 
man on board, was in sight of the shores of Scotland, sailing 
with a fair wind for the port of Dundee. 


CHAPTER XLIV. 

AT THE SAILORS’ HOME. 

A FEW miles from the great city of Newcastle-upon-Tyna 
stands the town of Tynemouth, which, over a hundred years 
ago, was little more than a small sea-shore village, inhabited by 
fishermen, river-pilots, and other rough, hard-laboring men and 
women who get their bread by the sea. 

In an open space near the sea-shore of Tvnemouth stood, and 
perchance stands, a small two-storied building of red brick, ia 
front of which was a flagstaff flying the Union Jack. Every 
piece of timber used in the erection of this building was made 
of drift-wood cast up by the sea; the pathway leading to tha 
door was laid with sand and shells; at the door itself was a 
wooden seat, made out of the stern-post of a vvrecked vessel; 
and along the window-sills were colored pieces of stone and 
large shells, all gathered on tlie neighboring shore. 

Fifty years before, an old sea captain, born and bred in the 
place, had returned to Tynemouth a wealthy man, and having 
plenty of money to spare, had built this house for a mere whim; 
afterward, finding it too large for his own occupation, he had let 
it out to a captain of the coastguard; but finally, having quar- 
reled with the executive on some question of smuggling or free 
trade, he had turned the place into a sort of sailors’ home for 
unfortunate wayfarers, endowing it with a small sum of money 
per annum, terminable at his death, to be supplemented by 
small weekly payments from such inmates as could afford to 
pay a trifle for bed and board. From that day forth till the day 
of his death, the old gentleman, who had a little cottage close 
by, might have been seen almost daily in front of the Home, in 
conversation with certain weather-beaten veterans, who were 
enjoying their siesta in the sun, and repaying their benefactor 
by retailing to him their experiences, their grievances, and their 
adventures, afloat and ashore. 

This son of Neptune, dying suddenly, in the very act of en- 
joying a sailor’s yarn of more than usual length and breadth, 
left all his little property to a degenerate nephew, who hated 
salt water, and kept a small hosiery establishment in Newcastle. 


GOD AND THE MAN. 


211 


The Home was about to be put up to tlie hammer, when a be- 
nevolent gentleman interfered, and bought it in for a small sum. 
Now, the gentleman was a friend and disciple of the famous 
Mr. Wesley, and it occurred to him as a happy thought that the 
establishment, instead of being delivered to the secular arm, 
should remain a Sailor’s Home still, but more particularly a 
Home for pious sailors of the Methodist persuasion. By his en- 
deavors a liberal sum was soon collected, one of the most liberal 
contributors being a certain Mr. Sefton, of London; and pres- 
ently a new wing was added, to be used as a convalescent hos- 
pital, where food, physic, medical attendance, and seasonable 
prayer were liberally provided for mariners and fishermen in 
bad health. 

On the wooden bench in front of the Home sat, one sunny 
autumn day, a gaunt, tall -man in rough sailor’s <jlothes. He 
might have been old and he might have been young; for none 
could tell whether time had made him so woe-begone, or merely 
sorrow. He had not long left his sick bed, and as he sat he leaned 
heavily upon an oaken staff. 

Standing before him was a plump, motherly-looking woman, 
in cotton gown and widow’s cap; nurse and cook at the Home, 
and wife to the old ex-coastguardsman who was its official 
custodian. 

“ How do you feel now, goodj man ?” she was saying. “ Bet- 
ter, surely. Nay, this brave weather will soot make you strong 
again, and fit to travel home.” 

The man raised his head wearily, and looked her in the face. 

“ Home!” he repeated, vacantly. 

“ Ay, indeed; for sure, now, you have a home, and mayhap a 
wife and bairns?” 

He looked at her again, sighed heavily, and shook his head. 

“Tlien you have kinsmen, at least?” continued the woman, 
with the curiosity of her sex. “ Do they bide far away ? Belike 
you have friends somewhere to whom you can go ?” 

“No kinsmen. No friends.” 

“ That is bad,” said the woman. “Boorman! what will you 
do? Go again to sea ?” 

The map did not reply. His eyes were fixed drearily on the 
quiet ocean, which sparkled beyond the green cliff whereon he 
sat. Presently, without turning his face from that fixed ob- 
ject of contemplation, he demanded: 

“ How came I here ?” 

“To the Mariners’ Haven, mean you? Ah, dear, don’t you 
remember? They found you in the streets of Newcastle, all in 
rags, with a kind of fever upon you, and since doctor said ’twas 
not catching, the good Methodists sent you down here. I’ve 
nursed you, good man, three long months; and sometimes I 
thought your wits were gone, for you did talk such strange 
things; but praise be to God, we’ve brought you round.” 

She added, as he did not reply: 

“ And no one knows your name, or where you come from, 
though you’ve been here so long.” 

“My name is Christian Christianson,” said the man. 


212 OOD AND THE MAN. 

“A right good naroe for a Christian man, as I pray you 
are!” 

Something in the words, like a fiery spark, seemed to fall 
upon the man and rouse him from his lethargy. New light 
came into his eyes, his lips trembled, his frame shook. 

“ Her words,” he murmured, “Tier words, long ago.” 

“Your wife, good man?” 

“Nay, I have no wife.” 

“Then your sweetheart, belike?” 

“Maybe,” he answered, nodding his head; and he added, 
sadly, “yes, her very words. ‘ A good name for a Christian 
man.” 

“ Is she living still, good man ?” 

“ Alas! I know not,” said Christian. “ We parted long ago, 
out upon the sea, and though I have sought I have not found 
her; perchance I shall never find her, this side the grave.” 

Even as he spoke there came, from the room within, the sound 
of rough voices singing a hymn; suddenly, from the very midst 
of those voices, there shot up another and a sweeter voice, clear 
as a bell, with soft and silver tones of plaintive tenderness. 

As he listened Christian started, trembling; the staff fell from 
his hand, his face went ghastly pale, and he trembled as with 
a palsy. “ My God!” he cried. “ What sound is that?” 

“ ’Tis the mariners singing their morning hymn,” said the 
woman. 

“ But that voice! that voice! I know it, I know it! O God, 
can it be ?” 

“ ’Tis the young lady missionary from London. She came 
yester-even to Tynemouth. Slie is stopping with good Mr. 
Lincoln, the hosier, at the sign of the Silver Stocking in New- 
castle.” 

“ Let me see her! let me speak to her!” cried Christian, stag- 
gering to his feet. 

Just then the hymn ceased. 

Bide a bit,” said the nurse; “ she will come forth directly, 
and then you may speak to her if you will. She has a kind 
heart, and loves poor mariners.” 

Exhausted with his agitation, Christian sank upon his seat, 
with his head against the wall of the portico. Sitting thus, he 
looked so gaunt, so weatherworn and sad, that you would have 
taken him for an old man. 

A sound of light feet in the lobby within, the murmur of a 
sweet voice; then out into the sunshine tripped a fair shape clad 
in deep black, holding a hymn-book in her hand. 

The edge of her dress touched Christian as she passed by, but 
he did not stir; he lay back with his eyes closed. Scarcely look- 
ing at him, the young missionary passed on. 

But the nurse interposed with a respectful courtesy. 

“ Bide a moment, if you please, unless your ladyship is in 
haste. This poor man ” 

As she spoke she bent over Christian and touched him on the 
arm, 


GOD AND THE MAN. 


213 


Now, master, here be the young lady waiting to speak to 
you.” Then seeing his condition, she added, quickly, “Poor 
soul, he has fainted away.” 

So it was indeed. But as the young lady and the nurse bent 
over him, he began to stir. “ He has just risen from his sick- 
bed,” explained the nurse, “and he was sitting here in the sun 
when he heard your hymn aud began to weep. He is some poor 
castaway without a friend.” 

The lady’s face was lit with divine compassion, but no recog- 
nition, as she softly touched Christian’s wasted hand with her 
own. The touch was electric, he opened his eyes wildly, and 
looked into her face. 

“ Priscilla!” he cried. 

She started in amaze. 

“ Do you not know me, Priscilla? I am Christian Christian- 
son.” 

It was as if the grave had opened and given up its dead. 

Priscilla stood paralyzed and for the moment seemed about to 
swoon. Recovering herself, she gazed at the wasted shape be- 
fore her in wonder, sorrow, and even fear. 

“ Yes, it is I,” he continued, faintly. “ I have only stayed 
for this — to see you, to know you live. Now I can die in 
peace.” 

The words stirred the fountain of love and pity in her heart, 
80 that her eyes filled with tears. 

“ O, Christian,” she cried, “ I can scarce believe that ’tis your 
living self. I thought — alas! I thought you were dead! But is 
it you f how strange, how strange!” 

And she continued to look upon him, reading every line and 
lineament of his form and face. He was changed indeed, but 
the powerful outline of the Christianson race remained. 

“ And you ?” he asked after a pause. “ How did you escape?” 

“God was good,” she replied; “we drove away southward, 
and as if by miracle the ice opened to let us go. I would have 
had them return to search for you; I begged them on my knees 
to do so, but even Captain Higginbotham said that it was im- 
possible. Then we came to Boston harbor, where we landed, I 
heart-broken, as you may guess. I went up with my father to 
the Moravian village, and scarce had we settled there when — 
when ” 

She paused, the tears streaming down her face; then she 
added, with a great sob: 

“ O Christian, he is gone!” 

“Your father?” 

“ My dear, dear father! God has taken him.’* 

She turned her face aw^ay in the fullness of her sorrow. He 
reached out his hand and took hers,- pressing it tenderly. 

“ He died blessing me,” she continued, in a broken voice. “ ‘ I 
am going to my dear Master,’ he said, smiling, ‘ where I shall 
see at last.’ ” 

“ Then you came back ?” 

“Some good friends brought me Iiome to my country; and 


214 


GOT) AND THE MAN. 


noivliYj to be worthy of him tliroagli helping the poor he 
loved; for I know that our parting is not forever, but only for a 
little while.” 

So speaking, she raised her e5"es to heaven, and looked like an 
angel already, in the sweet, intent gaze of her perfect faith. 

Silence followed. Both hearts were very full. The nurse, 
seeing so strange a meeting, had withdrawn respectfully into 
the house, and they were alone together. 

At last Christian raised his head, which he had bent forward, 
with his eyes upon the ground. 

“ Prisciila!” 

“ Yes, Christian.” 

“ You have not asked for him 

She started trembling, and their eyes met. Pale as death, 
she regarded him, in a new and nameless dread. 

“ Of him who was also cast away ?” 

*‘Yes; Richard Orchardson.” 

“ It was in m}’- heart to speak of him, but I was afraid, re- 
membering the bitterness between you. Oh, Christian, is he 
saved, too? You were together — you must know.” 

It was now Christian's turn to look upward, which he did 
reverently, as he replied: 

“ He is up yonder with vour father, among the angels of 
God!” " - 

“ Alas! is he dead ?” 

His body lies buried in the snow. Yes, he is dead.” 

The terror” did not leave her face, for as yet she dimly under- 
stood. With a quick, appealing gesture, and a look of increas- 
ing suspicion, she exclaimed: 

“ Not through you ? Christian, tell me, it was not through 
you V' 

“Not through me.” 

“ You — you did not — kill him ?” 

“I did not; and yet — what am I saying? — he perished 
through my hate. That guilt is on me. Had I not borne him 
from the ship, he might have been living now.” 

“ Alas!” 

“ Do not w’eep. It has all come about as you prayed. We 
were with each other to the end, we forgave each other, and ere 
he died God joined our hands.” , 

Presently he told her all — the weary vigil, the long suffering 
the final reconciliation; and as she listened she wept, for pity, 
not for sorrow, still with her little hand in his. 

When all was told, he pressed her hand softly, saying: 

“ He forgave me. Can you forgive me too ?” 

“P'orgive you?” she answered, looking at him through her 
tears. “Alas! what have I to forgive?” 

“ I came but as a shadow on your life. Better had you never 
known me, for I brought you much sorrow. And yet — I loved 
you, Priscilla!” 

“ Yes, Christian,” she said, simply, looking down. 

“ See what God has made of me — a poor waif, who was once 
a strong man; a weary sinner, who was once puffed out with 


OOD AND THE MAN. 

pride. You did not know me; no man would know me— I am' 
the gliost of my old self.” 

Hopeless and desolate beyond measure was the ring of hia 
voice. She drew nearer to him. and with a perfect grace and 
modesty rested her hand upon his hair. 

“ You will soon be yourself again, dear Christian,” she said. 

“ Never, never.” 

She drew a little nearer still. 

“Not if I nurse you? Not if Ibid you be your old dear self, 
for Priscilla’s sake?” 

He looked up wildly, and reached out his hands. 

“Priscilla, can it be? You — you ” 

She crept into his outstretched arms, crying to herself, and 
still smoothing his hair tenderly with her trembling fingers, as 
she said: 

“I have no one left but you. Let us remain together till the 
end.” 

“You love me, Priscilla?” 

“ I have loved you since the hour we first ?net!” 

The hush of a great joy fell upon them; the air grew golden, 
all the world was changed and glorified, as it ever is in those 
divine moments when loving souls are blent together. 

Presently she stirred from his arms, where she had been nest* 
ling in the shadow of the porch, and said, smiling: 

“Are you happy now?” 

“Quite happy.” 

“And you have no anger in your heart for any creature 
alive?” 

“ None, dearest.” 

“You are quite, quite sure?” 

“Yes.” 

“ Then I will give you some good news that I have lately 
learned. Your poor sister Kate ” 

He started eagerly. 

“ Your poor sister Kate is alive and well; she is waiting for 
you in the old Fen Farm.” 


EPILOGUE. 

The bells of Yuletide were ringing Joyfully, the upland slopes 
were white with snow, and the mere was frozen an inch thick, 
when Christian Christianson w’as wedded to Priscilla Sefton; 
and their hands were joined together by no less a person than 
the great Mr. Wesley himself, who came post-haste from Lon* 
don to bless the wedding of a maiden he loved full well. 

They were married at Brightlinghead; Kate Christianson was 
there, looking prettier thougli sadder than iu former happier 
days; and when all was done, they drove quietly home to the 
door of the Feu Farm. 

Sitting up at the Hall, the old squire lu'ard the bells, and look- 
ing out upon terrace and lawn, all white and cold, thought sadly 
of his dear son, who was lying so far away, asleep under the 
gnow. For Christian had kept his word, and had entered the 


21C 


GOD, AND THE MAN 


lonely house, standing before the squire bareheaded, and had 
told his tale. When he had done, his heart ached within him, 
for the old man sat and looked at him, pale as death, but with- 
out a tear; and from that day forth he had scarcely spoken, 
but sat desolate in the great house, waiting for his time ,to 
come. 

For many a day the weight of a dark experience, a sorrowful 
awe, dwelt upon the soul* of Christian Christianson. He looked 
old far beyond his years, and seldom smiled; but went about his 
daily work with a grave gentleness, like a man who is thinking 
of another world. But peace had surely come to him, and he 
was happy beyond measure in his Priscilla’s love. And in due 
season, when time had softened the memory of his trial, and 
when the sound of children was heard in the old dwelling, he 
became a prosperous man, famed for his blameless life and his 
good deeds for many miles around. 

So it happened in the end that out of evil came good, the old 
feud was forgotten, the spirit of the dead man brought blessing 
to all that remembered him, and chiefly to him that had hated 
him most; and presently it came about, after all, that a Chris- 
tianson wedded an Orchardson, so that the two houses became 
happily united, by blood that is thicker than water, and love 
that is stronger than death. 

Thus was the heart of Christian Christianson made whole, and 
the lives of him and his generation made peaceful, through 
faith in Divine Love. Yet what were such faith worth if this 
low earth were all, if the tangled threads of our strange human 
experience were not to be gathered up again, after death’s 
asundering, by the God that made man in His likeness, yea, 
immortal like Himself? Without that certainty of a divine 
explanation, without that last hope of heavenly meeting 
and eternal reconciliation, the life we live would be profitless— 
as a book left unfinished, as a song half unsung, as a tale just 
begun. 


[the end.] 




The treatment of many thousands of 
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t^“ Send ten cents in stamps for Dr» 
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World’s Dispensary Medioal Assoolationi 
MAIN SnUBST, BUFFALO^ N» K 










LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 




